


The Death of Aidos

by Deos



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Awkward Conversations, Eventual Romance, Excruciatingly Slow Burn, F/M, My First Fanwork, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2019-10-16 08:18:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 118,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17546012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deos/pseuds/Deos
Summary: After Overwatch is recalled, Reinhardt returns to active duty accompanied by his loyal squire, Brigitte. With trouble brewing as both Talon and the Vishkar Corporation set their sights on upsetting the world’s peace, will they be able to protect those they care about, and themselves?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll keep it short. First fanfic ever posted, not the first one I've ever started. I wasn't ever intending to write this pair, but the idea came to me and wouldn't let me go. So, here you have it in all its unbeta'd glory!
> 
> Warning:
> 
> I'm writing this for my own joy, I don't care to profit from it. 
> 
> There will eventually be a relationship with a huuuuge age gap.
> 
> I have no clue how graphic I'm going to get in this thing, but I tagged it Explicit just to be careful.

Reinhardt was a loud man. This was something Brigitte has always known; first from the tales her father told her, then from firsthand knowledge of the man himself. He laughs loudly, he speaks loudly, he eats loudly, he drinks loudly, (she doesn’t think she’ll _ever_ be able to beat him in a belching competition) _;_ she doesn’t think it is possible for a man that big to do anything quietly.

Residing in a castle as large as they do, it would be expected that she wouldn’t hear him some of the time, but if anything the old stone walls amplify every sound. Sometimes she can even hear the skitter of mice late at night.

Which is why it's so strange that she can’t hear Reinhardt now.

It is half-past two. At this time he is usually in his workshop roaring along to Hasselhoff and polishing his armor, or else in the sitting room, working his way through his stretches with much groaning and popping of joints. Even if he were reading the news she would be able to hear it; he can hardly make it through the front page without exclamations of disgust or interest.

She puts down the samples of tecra magnesium and neo-duraluminum she has been testing in favor of looking for him.

There is no Reinhardt raiding the fridge. No huge form sprawled across the sofa _(I was not sleeping, I was doing that meditating that Genji has recommended!) _,__ or tinkering with small pieces in the workshop. That leaves only one place to check.

As she approaches his door, she tries to step quietly. She doesn’t want to disturb him if he is in the process of ‘meditating’, as he sometimes does. His door is open just a crack. It doesn’t close properly anymore; it has been ripped open enthusiastically too many times.

There he is.

His back is to her and he is sitting hunched over at his desk against the opposite wall. There is something strange about how he looks. His shoulders are quaking up and down, his whole body trembling minutely, and -- what is that sound?

Brigitte presses her ear closer to the opening. She can hear the roughness of uneven breaths, and something that sounds like a high-pitched, strangled whimper.

Her heart sinks, and she slips away from the door. He is in one of his rare moods. He gets like this, sometimes. Usually after having a particularly tough sparring session and a little too much _Schneider Weisse _.__ He becomes morose, reminiscent; lost in the memories of people he couldn’t save. But she has never seen him cry. Even papa said he hadn’t shed a tear at Jack Morrison’s funeral. _ _Did he receive some terrible news?__

She returns to her work bench, troubled. She doesn’t know how to react to this. Should she talk to him? Ignore it completely? Reinhardt, while being an emotional man, is not one to wallow in more negative emotions. If he wanted her comfort, he would have come to her would he not? Or is he trying to spare her from worrying about him? She knows he did not like to show weakness, even to her.

Her warring thoughts are too distracting. She puts down her tools and rests her head against her palms. She decides that she will give him until tonight to talk about it. While she won’t push him about it, she wants him to know that it’s okay to unburden himself on her. Maybe if she goes extra hard during their sparring tonight, and plies him with a little more beer he will open up.

Feeling relieved now that she has a plan, the auburn-haired woman resumes testing the materials she hopes to build a lighter shield with.

When Reinhardt at last throws open his door, she is working on calculating the conductivity of her samples. She looks up when he calls out a greeting, and shows him what she is doing. There is no sign that he has been crying.

“I am thinking you should go with the tecra magnesium, _Shildlein _.__ I hear that nothing compares to its strength!” He remarks as she explains the numbers.

“Strength isn’t everything, as papa always says!” She laughs.

“Pah, that old dog. It is my strength has saved his sorry _arsch_ more than a few times, let him know that!” Reinhard calls back dismissively, disappearing out the door that leads to his workshop.

They work in their respective studios for another hour until 4. Brigitte has an alarm on her watch that goes off at 5 til, and she abandons her project in favor of changing into her sparring gear. She meets Reinhardt in what is probably her favorite room in the whole castle: the dojo.

It is a large room, the floor is made up of padded mats and the walls are lined with more of the same. There are mylar mirrors set above the mats, tilted at angles so each surface of the room can be seen.

She is kneeling in the center of the room waiting for him when he arrives. He’s wearing his usual loose gi pants and a tank top, which echoes her own outfit. They do not speak; they have an understanding. This room is a place meant for worship; glorification of hard work, exaltation of the sweat that will soon be pouring off their bodies. Talk will come after.

They meet in the center, bow respectfully to each other and then each drops into a defensive stance. They circle each other warily, and it is Reinhardt that strikes first. He throws a low kick that she dances away from, and turns into a side-strike that can’t avoid. He hit barely clips him, and he attempts to grab her lagging foot. Their sparring is a dance that is at once fluid and sharp; their strikes and dodges flow together like water, then erupt into jagged lines of force when hits finally connect with their mark.

It is Reinhardt who wins the first round. He catches her as she stumbles trying to avoid another sweeping kick, and pins her in the ground, one arm across her throat as his legs trap her lower half. She can feel the power behind the heavy limb that is snugly under her chin, and she taps his shoulder lightly with her free hand to show submission. He lumbers to his feet and offers her a hand up before they square up again.

Again and again they come together, Brigitte testing her speed against his raw power. She is much faster than he is, but he possesses strength that is impossible to win against unless she wears him down first. Near the end of their normal hour, she finally takes him down. She is on top of him, her legs snug up under his arms and her weight squarely on his chest so he cannot buck her off. She has one of his arms in an arm bar, the other she feels patting her back in submission. This time it is she who hops up and offers her hand.

As the hour of sparring comes to a close, she puts her all into it. Ducking, dodging, weaving, harrying him like a mongoose fighting a bear. She keeps going, even when the hour is up which she can tell surprises him, but he doesn’t bat an eye. Another fifteen minutes find her pinning him twice more, and as he gets up from the last one with a groan she offers him a weary grin and a thumbs-up. It’s over; there’s no more fight in her tonight.

Together they spray down the mats and wipe them clean, then retire to their respective rooms for a quick shower. Brigitte comes out from the bedroom still towel-drying her hair to find Reinhardt fully dressed and slugging back a tall glass of water. It’s partner is sitting on the kitchen counter closest to her, condensation beading the outside.

“Thanks!” She gulps down the water thirstily, and slams down the glass with a watery belch. “Where do you want to go tonight?”

“Hmm..I am feeling _Königshalle _.__ They make the best _ _sauerbraten!”__ As if to echo his sentiments, Reinhardt’s stomach growls mightily.

Brigitte laughs. “We better get there soon, before you decide to eat me!” She throws her towel onto her bedroom floor and pulls on her coat and boots, racing out to meet him in the garage. She starts up the little Volkswagen and in no time at all they are sitting in front of the pub.

When they go through the front door they are greeted with many cheerful hails from the regulars there and the barman, John.

“It has been TOO LONG!” Reinhardt declares, even though they were here not three days ago. “John, a plate of _sauerbraten_ and an _Eisbocker _,__ if you please!”

Brigitte takes her spot at the bar to his left, greeting everyone warmly. She is well-known here too, in no small part due to Reinhard’s frequent visits and his tall tales. They spend a companionable dinner chatting with John and a few of the regular patrons that stay to talk. Reinhardt regales them with the tales of their most recent mission at Overwatch -- minus any sensitive information--and works his way through three plates of _sauerbraten_ and several pints of lager. She makes her way through a more modest two bowls of _Lumpen und Fleeh_ , but can’t resist a slice of black chocolate gateau. She has only one pint as she is the driver, and she knows there several bottles of chilled _Schneider Weisse_ waiting back home.

They stay for nearly an hour and a half--normally they would stay for two, but she leans in close to Reinhardt and alludes to the surprise she has at home for them. He is in a good mood from the food, company and drinks and acquiesces easily enough. He pays for their meal and roars a merry good evening to everyone before they depart.

“Wait here.” She pulls out a seat at the dining table for him once they are inside and runs to fetch the _Schneider Weisse _.__

“Brigitte, you sly girl! Where have you been hiding these?” He declares as he sees what she is holding, but she only smirks in response. They will surely disappear overnight if she reveals their hiding spot.

She pops the caps off and hands one to him, then takes a deep swig of her own. Ah, it truly is delicious. Smooth, fruity, it goes down a treat. As she watches him enjoy his, she feels her contentment faltering at the thought of what she must do. She doesn’t want to spoil the happiness of this moment by making him remember something that will upset him. At the same time though, she doesn’t want him to feel like he has to hide anything from her. She’s his squire; he trusts her to maintain his armor, to maintain his body, why should mental maintenance be any different?

She squares herself, “So….Reinhardt. Are you doing okay?” he eyes her for a second, a slightly bemused expression on his face so she adds, “I mean, are you feeling alright?”

“Yes, of course!” He booms, taking another swig of his drink. “Never better! Though,” he waggles a finger at her, his beer sloshing, “don’t think I didn’t see what you were trying to do today, young lady.”

She feels coldness in the pit of her stomach. He knew she was there? And he didn’t say anything?

“Well, I-I just happened to-”

“You were trying to wear me down! Ha, don’t think that will make me go easy on you tomorrow, now that I know that you’ve been holding out on me!” Reinhardt continues, talking over her.

Oh. He was talking about the sparring.

“OH, that? No, no….I was just feeling extra energetic today, I guess,” she replies, “what I mean is...” _Ah, heck_. There’s no easy way around it; it’s Reinhardt. She knows she has to be direct about these sorts of things, and so she lets it out. “I mean, I saw you today. You know, when you were...in your room.” She’s hesitant to say _when I saw you crying_ , that sounds too much like an accusation.

She didn’t meet his eyes when she said it. She didn’t want to see the expression on his face, knowing he hasn’t wanted her to see him so vulnerable. It’s hard not to look though, because she is curious. She wants to know how he feels about it.

She can’t keep her eyes down any longer, flicking them up to his face. What she sees is surprising; his hand is raised halfway to his mouth, the _Schneider Weisse_ only half drunk. His mouth is open in a a surprised little ‘o’, as though this confession caught him right as he was about to take a swig. What surprises her most is his color. His whole face is white! He looks as if he might be sick!

“Reinhardt?” She can’t keep the note of alarm out of her voice. “Are you alright?”

“You...you...saw me?” His voice comes out rustily, like a stuck gear grinding into motion.

“Well, I -- yes, I did.” She lays the confession at his feet. She won’t hide from what she’s done, even if he is embarrassed about it. She just wants to get this all out in the open so they can work through it.

“I never wanted you to see something like that,” he squeaks, his voice pitched abnormally high. He's not meeting her gaze. Is he self-conscious? She doesn't want him to be. It's perfectly normal, everyone has those moments, even her! She tells him as much, and he makes a funny choking sound.

She comes out of her seat, crossing the table to where he's sitting and pries the beer from his still-frozen hand, taking his cold fingers into her own.

“Reinhardt, really. It's okay. Everyone cries, and it's not weakness to do so.”

His head jerks, his good eye showing confusion. “Crying?” his stiff fingers relax into her grip. “You thought I was...crying?”

Now it is she who pins him with a befuddled look.

“Yes. Weren't you?”

“No, n-I mean, yes!” he splutters, pulling his hand from her grip and folding his fingers together nervously on the table. “I was feeling...sad, _ja_.”

There are many things that Reinhardt is good at, but lying is not one of them. He's doing it now, she can tell. His tone is neither convincing nor sincere, and the way he's fidgeting makes him look like a child caught doing something naughty.

He doesn't lie. Not to her. Not since the time he lied about taking care of a wound on his back and it got infected. She had made him swear on his honor that he wouldn't, even as she lanced the angry swelling. And since then he had remained true to his word.

But here he was now, lying.

“ _Reinhardt _…”__ She can't keep the note of testiness from her voice.

“Um, I-I think I have had too much to drink, I am feeling sick!” he stands up abruptly from the table, shifting it a few inches in his clumsiness and stumbles towards his room. She follows in pursuit.

“REINHARDT!” She squeezes herself in between him and the opening to his room, barring his path. “What is going on?!”

His face is bright red, and he still won't meet her eyes. Her ire deflates. Whatever it is, he must be truly ashamed of it.

“...you promised not to lie to me,” she says quietly.

She can hear him take in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“I know, _Shildlein_. It's just…” the answer comes slowly, each syllable dropping reluctantly from his mouth, “I was...I was…” He gulps a quick breath, then chokes out the last word.

“ _Onanieren _.”__

She frowns. The word is not immediately placeable. She knows _Onanie_ which is to...to..

Oh. _Oh _.__

Now it is she who flushes in embarrassment as she realizes what exactly he has just confessed to. And she who has forced him into it!

“Oh, well... that's..fine. It's fine. Totally normal. Completely normal to want some private time, I mean, we all need it sometimes,” the words are spilling out of her mouth, she's unable to stop them. She begins inching out of the doorway, away from him to her own room. For some reason she keeps talking, as though it can squash down the awkwardness that is now rising between them. “Yeah well, uh...sorry for cornering you like that. Good night!”

As she slips down the hall and into to her bedroom, she can hear the squeak of the door as he tries to close it and it inches back open.

She is _going_ to fix that tomorrow!


	2. Chapter 2

The morning dawns cold and bright. Fall is beginning to dig its roots into the German countryside.

Reinhardt wakes as he always does, precisely three minutes before his alarm goes off. He rolls out of bed with a grunt, stretching out the stiffness that has settled into his joints as he slept. He stumbles sleepily to the bathroom where he toilets and washes his hands. He makes it as far as his doorway before memories of the previous night come flooding back.

 _Meine Gott._ Did that _really_ happen?

It had.

He lets out a disgusted groan. Why hadn’t he kept his big mouth shut? If only he had picked up on her misinterpretation, she might’ve believed that he was having some kind of emotional breakdown!

No….not his squire. She was too smart. She was dogged in her pursuit of the truth, and knew him too well. He couldn’t lie to her; shouldn’t have tried. The realization didn’t make his reality now any easier though.

Well. It was obvious from their goodnight last night that she wanted to pretend that it hadn’t happened, which was his wish as well. So, he would! 

Resolute, he throws open the bedroom door and stomps to the kitchen. He takes in the sight of their half-finished _Schneider Weisses_ on the table, and collects the bottles. They might be flat, but it would be a shame to let good beer go to waste. He drains them, then rinsed and recycled the bottles.

Hmm, what would be good today. Perhaps omelettes? He rummages through the fridge, collecting ingredients. They are getting low on eggs; he makes a mental note to pick some up on Sunday when they go to the grocers.

As he fires up the stove top he pulls up _Looking for Freedom_ on the sound system and sets to cooking.

One less-known fact about Reinhardt Wilhelm is that he _loves_ to cook. It is a skill learned later in life; after he joined Overwatch he had been stationed at the Watchpoint at Gibraltar which had lain mostly dormant for many years. Eating powdered rations and fruit had gotten old fast (how could Winston stand it?) and there was no way to cater in elaborate meals without raising suspicion, so he had learned to make the food he wanted to eat. It had even become something of a ritual with him and the other agents; everyone taking turns cooking, washing dishes, getting groceries. It had become _fellowship_.

He hums along to the refrain as the oil sizzles and pops in the skillet, and throws in some dried herbs, fresh veggies and ham from their leftovers earlier that week. As the next track comes on, he cracks four eggs over the whole mess and stirs it all together until it’s blended evenly and waits for it to set. He _might_ belt out the refrain for _Crazy for You_ as he waits, but there’s no one there to witness it, so what’s the harm?

Once the omelette is cooked, he folds it in half and slides it onto one of two waiting plates. That one is for Brigitte; to his omelette he adds some spicy chili flakes to the mix and cracks twice as many eggs. Ah, it smells divine!

Once he has two piping hot omelettes set on their plates, he turns to the table where he expects a bleary Brigitte, as is their ritual. She isn’t there. Well, he isn’t going to let her lay in all morning!

He goes to her door, which is shut. He knocks firmly three times, and calls, “ _Shildlein!_ Do not sleep the day away, breakfast is ready!” and then goes back to the table. He starts in on his omelette and washes each bite down with a swig of lemon water (Angela says it is good for his kidneys), adding some hot sauce to the mix about halfway through. By the time he is bringing the last bite to his lips, she has still not turned up.

Well, perhaps she wishes to dine alone this morning. He stifles the creeping sense of unease that perhaps she is more bothered by last night than he thought, and rinses his plate in the sink. Then, he pulls on his sneakers. A digestive walk is just what he needs. As he closes the door behind him, he thinks he can hear the creak of hinges opening down the hallway.

Morning in the countryside is beautiful. The sun is beginning to creep over the horizon, the sky a cloudless orange that morphs into tones of pink and blue as it rises. The air is brisk and cool and he is only in his pajama pants and a long-sleeved top. But the cold he has been told is good for recovering muscles, and he is strong enough to weather it.

He increases his pace to a fast walk. Were he a younger man he might have run, but he feels the impact in his knees now as he never has before. Not to mention, the good doctor has told him that walking is better than running on one’s joints.

By the time he circles back through the woods to his home, his muscles are warm enough that he hardly notices the cold. All around him the forest is coming alive; birds are singing, squirrels scurry through the underbrush and he even spots a deer, though it bounces away before he even gets close.

“Run, little friend!” he roars to its retreating back, “Enjoy your youth while you have it!”

When Reinhardt comes in from his walk he sees that the table is empty. The drying rack next to the sink has two sets of plates, forks and glasses in it which means that Brigitte is up. As he goes to the living room he is close enough to hear strains of music coming from behind his closed workshop door. She must be working on his armor now. Normally he would go in and rib her about oversleeping, but he thinks that it must have been deliberate. She is _avoiding_ him. He isn’t certain that the best thing to do now is corner her into an unwanted conversation. When she is ready, she will talk.

He decides now is a good time to work out some of the more persistent aches and lingering muscle tightness in his body. His afternoon stretches are well and good, but they are more designed to limber him up for their sparring sessions. He retreats to his bedroom and utilizes what is perhaps his favorite gift from Angela: a heated massager. There he works his tight trapezius, his spinal erectors, his hamstrings, even his piriformis. He groans his way through some of the worst knots before deciding he’s had enough of that and instead pulls up the news.

Absentmindedly, he lets the massager work his neck while he flicks through the front page on his holopad; _Die Mannschaft_ won their last game 3-1 last night, good, he had missed it. There are plans in the works to install a new solar power grid in west Germany; he thinks they would have better luck with one near the Wetterstein Mountains, but he’s not a solar engineer. Rumors of a Bastion-54 unit in southern Sweden; bah! They are seeing ghosts everywhere, even 20 years on! He puts down his tablet, making a mental note to laugh with Torbjorn about that last article when he sees him next.

His muscles feel as loose as they ever do. Perfect, as it is time for his drills! He changes into gear more suitable for his workout, throwing his sleepwear into the hamper.

As he goes down to his workshop he can see that the door is open now, the lights and music off. Brigitte is gone, but the door to her workshop directly opposite his is closed. Light glows through the gap under the door. She must be hard at work on her own projects now. He leaves her be, and closes his own door as to not disturb her. His drill sessions tend to be... _loud._

He warms up with just his rocket hammer; he disables the rockets at first. He wants to practice the swing without assistance; it’s important that he be able to swing it should they suddenly malfunction. Half of his workshop is open wide, unencumbered by equipment or tools. Instead there are thick silicone mats inlaid into the floor. He hefts his hammer, testing it with a few warmup swings before he remembers that he’s supposed to be wearing ear protection. Brigitte would nag him about protecting his hearing if she were watching; he can hear her chiding as clear as day. Reluctantly he pops in some foam plugs, then begins to pummel the mats.

“HRAAHH!” Each swing is met with a loud cry; the knight expels his breath at the hammer meets the mat with a boom, putting as much force behind each hit as he can. He pushes himself as he continues; to swing faster, to snap the hammer back into position faster, to hit with more force. He continues this onslaught until his arms tremble and he can no longer maintain good form.

“Hahhh..” His breath comes in panting spurts, his heart beating almost out of his chest as he struggles to recover. In his workshop he has a mini-fridge stocked with water bottles and a few local beers. He selects a water and drains most of it between breaths, then dumps the rest over his head. His silvery hair clings to his neck, soaked with sweat and water. Pushing himself feels _good_.

As his heartbeat calms, he enables the rocket mechanism and begins again. This time he is able to go longer, swing harder, aided as he is. The thunderous crash of the hammer shakes the whole workshop; he can’t see it, but tools shiver on their hooks. His empty water bottle shudders off the mini-fridge and jitters across the floor.

Reinhardt swings until his strength once again gives out, then takes another a break. He fetches the errant water bottle and grabs a new one; this one receives the same treatment as the first. Then he returns to his hammer. For his last drill, things get a little more complicated. He cannot actually practice firestriking in his workshop; it is too destructive. instead he mounts small motion-capturing sensors along the hammer’s head and shaft, booting up his special program. He rolls down a projector screen that hangs from the ceiling, and as the program starts a small blinking dot appears on the screen.

He swings the hammer in a parody of a firestrike, and a lick of color appears on the screen; the strike’s impact zone. Now he practices trying to land his hits on the dot, which flits around the screen every few seconds. It glows blue every time he lands a hit. He forces himself to count ten perfect hits in a row before he lets himself quit.

Ah, now he is well and truly worn out. And mightily hungry! He lays the hammer in its cradle; he will polish it and remove the trackers after lunch. As he leaves the workshop he sees that her door is cracked open, the lights on. He can't see her through the gap, but he thinks she must be at lunch.

Yes; she has left the lunch spread on the counter for him. Meats, cheeses, thick slabs of bread, a heart of romaine. He fixes himself a heaping sandwich and adds a liberal squirt of mayonnaise ( _you really should watch your cholesterol_ , Angela sighs) and, as an afterthought plucks some extra romaine leaves from the heart in an approximation of a salad. He stomps into the living room balancing his plate, a glass and a couple bananas and settles himself into his favorite recliner.

The knight eats leisurely, flipping between the news channels and sports channels until he finds a game worth watching. When he is done, he sets his plate aside and thinks briefly about how easy it would be to put up the foot of the recliner, lean back and practice a little meditation-- but no. He needs to go polish his armor, which he had been waylaid from yesterday.

 _No, you were polishing something else, hm?_ The sly voice in his head sounds a lot like Amari. She always did have a crude sense of humor.

He finds himself back in his shop soon after, cranking up the Oldies on the sound system and retrieving some rags and a tube of _Glänztschnell_. He lowers his armor in its suspension system and sets to work. As he moves each joint he notices that none of them squeak, and that a persistent dent on the right breastplate has been worked out. Ah, Brigitte. Still staunch in her duties, even if she _is_ avoiding him.

By the time Reinhardt has finished buffing every surface to gleaming perfection, he realizes it is almost time for them to spar. He puts everything away and then begins his dynamic stretches. As he does, he wonders a little at whether or not she will show up. She has never failed to show, but then again, she has never avoided him either. Well, no matter what she is feeling he will not let her slack on her training 

When he makes it to the dojo, he finds her kneeling in the center mat awaiting him. She meets his eye when he arrives, which is promising. The set of her face though is strange; it is almost pained. Well, perhaps any issues between them will be worked out with a good session.

They bow, and the fight begins. 

Brigitte fights terribly that night. Reinhardt deliberately leaves wide openings to test her, none of which she takes. Her own movements are hesitant, slow, as if she is questioning each one. These mistakes allow him to pin her easily. Again and again she is forced to accede submission. By the time their sparring is over, she has not managed to pin him once. When dojo is cleaned she departs quickly to her room, and he retires to his. 

In the shower he wonders if this is going to become a bigger issue. She is not herself. Has his confession really disturbed her so? He couldn’t see any way out of it, not at the time. As he scrubs the water out of his hair, he sighs. He’s no good when it comes to matters like these--matters of the heart. _Emotions_. He hopes she comes to her senses soon. 

When he pulls his coat on he is expecting that he will head alone to _Schwartz Taverne_ , but she meets him in the garage and slips into the driver’s seat.

“ _Schwartz Taverne_?” she asks as he heaves himself into the passenger’s side, and he nods. They tend to have a pattern with their visits.

The ride to _Schwartz Taverne_ is short, but silent. He wants to say something, but his voice sticks in his throat. When they get out of the car and stride into the bar, he is afraid that the night is going to be unpleasantly frigid for reasons other than the chilly bite of the wind, but he is surprised. Perhaps it is the atmosphere of the bar (which is rich and warm), or the other patrons but Brigitte seems to thaw. She smiles and waves at the regulars, tugs at his arm to pull him into a seat at the bar between people they both know. The bartender, Ella greets him warmly.

“Ah, Ella, it has been too long!” He cannot hug her across the bar, but he clasps her hand in both of his own and bows over it to give it a kiss. She crooks one dark brow at him, her mouth quirked as though she is trying to hide her smile.

“Well well, look what the cat has dragged in! Finally showing your sorry mug around here, are ya?” she grabs two steins, filling one first with Brigitte’s preferred _Gaffel Kölsch_ and his with _Erdinger Kristall._ She sets the glasses down in front of each of them, peering down her nose at her patrons. “It’s been near on two months since I’ve seen ya.”

“My beauty, you know I could not stay away forever!” he exclaims, tipping her a broad wink. She shakes her head at him, black ringlets flying. She knows he cannot talk about his work.

“You old flatterer.” She tips her head to the side, as if thinking. “Let me guess...two orders of _Maultaschen_ for you and a hamburger for you, Brigitte?” 

“You truly know the way to my heart!” he agrees to the order, before glancing to the left where Brigitte sits. She is nodding at Ella, a small smile on her lips.

“Could I get the burger with extra pickle this time?” his squire asks, taking a sip from her beer.

“Not pregnant are ya, lassie?” Ella calls over her shoulder as she takes their order to the kitchen, and Brigitte chokes on her drink. He pounds her back as she splutters and coughs to Ella's cackling laughter. “Only joking. You're far too young to for that!”

Brigitte manages to get ahold of her breathing by the time Ella brings back their appetizer, a plate of onion tarts. She helps herself to one and shakes it at the barmaid. “If these weren't so good Ella, I would be throwing it at you!”

They are quite good. Reinhardt is halfway eating his third one when a hand lands firmly on his shoulder.

“Reinhardt! Is it really you?” a familiar voice says, and he turns to meet a face he never thought he’d see again.

Though his black goatee is now grey, he recognizes Artur immediately. The two men fold each other in a delighted embrace, slapping each other on the back heartily as they hug.

“Artur, old friend! What a surprise to see you!” he exclaims, releasing the man from his grasp.

“I knew it must be you, Wilhelm! No one else wears that hairstyle anymore!” jokes Artur, settling onto the stool to Reinhardt’s right. The knight raises a finger to flag Ella. 

“A drink please, for this fellow here! On me, of course.”

“Ah, you don’t have to do that--” but Reinhardt shuts him up with a shake of his head.

“Nonsense, I won’t hear any argument!”

Artur orders himself the same thing Reinhardt is drinking, nodding approvingly as he takes a draft from his mug. “You always did have good taste in beer.”

The knight laughs. “Of course, and I haven’t lost it.” He leans in closer to Artur, ready to settle into earnest conversation. “So, tell me, what have you been up to all these years? How is Marianna?”

It has been many years since he last saw Artur Fischer. If he remembers correctly, the battle at Eichenwalde was the last time were together; Artur was taken to the hospital to recover from his many bullet wounds and minor blast lung, while he himself was treated by medics at the scene and remained to mop up any omnic stragglers. Once Eichenwalde had been secured he had passed his report onto the next Crusader in line to become Lieutenant and resigned his post. Then he had been free to honor Balderich’s dying wish and answer the call to Overwatch. 

More than twenty years! So much catching up to do. Indeed, they talk for almost two hours (well, Artur does quite a bit of talking while he tucks into his _Maultaschen_ ) and by the end they’ve only skimmed the surface to get to the present day. It turns out that after he was taken to the hospital, Artur retired honorably from the _Bundeswehr._ He and Marianna left Germany with their baby and went to Switzerland, unknowingly echoing Reinhardt’s own movements. There they resided for many years until the Omnic Crisis was resolved. They had intended to move back to Germany once the war was over, but by that point Artur had gotten a decent job and Marianna was pregnant with their second child. Only in the last month had they moved back, now that both children were out of the house.

Reinhardt told Artur what he could about his time in Overwatch; the missions and guerilla attacks that were designed to bring the Omnic Crisis to an end. He told him about travelling as a knight-errant, (omitting his dismissal from the organization) and introduced Brigitte, his loyal squire.

“More recently, I have returned to active duty in Overwatch. There is still much wrong in the world that needs righting, and I intend to see that this does not end as it did before.”

Artur nods to him over his drink, his face solemn. Everyone knows about the disgrace that befell Overwatch after the war. 

Silence falls between them, and they sit companionably for a few minutes; each lost in memories of the not-so-distant past.

“Well, my friend we will have to meet again soon.” Reinhardt says as he watches Brigitte trying not to nod off over her drink. They have stayed much later than normal.  “There is still much I wish to know!”

Artur agrees, and the two men exchange contact information so they can meet at a later date. Artur wants him to visit and see Marianna, who he had never met in person before, only in holo-pictures that the soldier had shared. “You will not be a stranger to her, she has heard a great deal about you!”

With a laugh and another firm embrace, the men part ways. This time it is Brigitte that pays the bill (minus Artur’s drinks, which Reinhardt has already gladly paid for) and they journey home. The ride back is silent too, though he scarcely notices it. He is too caught up in memories that seem much too close after seeing Artur tonight. 

It is bittersweet, seeing old friends. Seeing the old soldier in the flesh has shocked him more than the knight cares to admit; a ghost, made solid. He would scarcely be more surprised if Jack Morrison returned from the dead. But still... it was good to see him. Good to know that at least one person from his past had made it out of that bloody war alive.

When he closes his bedroom door he notices that it does not squeak. It also remains firmly shut when he lets go of the handle; the busted hinge has been replaced. _Brigitte_.

That night he dreams of blood and grease smeared across gleaming armor, and the echoing roar of gunfire.


	3. Chapter 3

It has been four days since “The Incident” (as Brigitte has taken to calling it), and each day is worse than the last. She has been avoiding Reinhardt, she cannot deny it. She can’t explain why either; it’s just that, now she has become hyper-aware of his presence. Each sound he makes, each movement through the house. She spooks when she thinks he is coming closer, which, since they practically live in each other’s pockets is nearly constant.  It is becoming intolerable.

Worse still is she is performing more poorly in their sparring sessions than she has since she first began training with him. She hasn’t managed a pin in days, her forms are weak and she second guesses every move. On Thursday night after another hour of solid defeats, she stalks to her room the second she can. She hops into the shower, wishing she could scrub off the grimy sensation of shame. When she thinks back to that last pin, she feels a flood of heat in her face. It would have been _so easy_ to break it if she hadn’t been panicking!

Brigitte scrubs her scalp furiously, bubbles lathering up in her hands. This is not who she is. She is not some shrinking violet, she does not have ‘delicate sensibilities’ regarding any bodily functions, so why is she so bothered by _this?_

She turns her face into the shower stream, squinching her eyes shut against the torrent of water and sputtering as she rinses the suds from her hair. As the metalsmith combs conditioner through her thick tresses, she thinks.

She has been thinking about it almost nonstop since it happened. There is no logical reason that she can find for it to bother her. The only reason that she can think of that _might_ explain it is this: that it has made her realize for the first time that Reinhardt is a _man_.

“Which is stupid, of course.” She says out loud. She begins to soap herself down, letting the conditioner sit awhile longer. It _is_ stupid. So completely stupid. But it _fits_.

As a child when she listened to the stories her father told of him, Reinhardt Wilhelm seemed larger than life. A knight, like in the ancient fairytales who was strong enough to slay dragons, turn the tide of wars, win the hearts of countless people. When she finally did meet him, she saw that he truly _was_ larger than life. He towered over her, seeming to eclipse the sun with his broadness. His laughter boomed through every corner of the house as she had sat star-struck in front of him, listening to him spin the tales of his deeds. From the moment she saw him, she knew that she belonged at his side.

_So what has changed?_

Well, she supposed that up until that moment she had still seen him that way; the honorable knight, superhuman paragon of justice and virtue. And then, well…

He was all that, and more. He was a man too, with the wants and needs of all mortal men; a sexual being. Human, in a way she never considered. And she didn’t know how to assimilate the two views.

Growling her frustration with herself, she rinses vigorously and steps out of the shower. Well, she wasn’t going to have another sparring session like that! Wrapping herself in a towel, she wipes a hand across her fogged-up mirror and glares into her own eyes.

“Alright, listen up Brigitte,” she says to herself. “You are going to get over it, and you are going to get over it _right now_. Who cares that he masturbates? You do it too! Probably everyone does! He does, you do, your dad probably does--” Okay, ew. That isn't something she wants to think about, “--the point is, it’s dumb to get all worked up over it. So, that’s it! You’re over it! And starting now, you are going back to. Acting. NORMAL!!!” She punctuates the last three words with vigorous slaps to her cheeks, hard enough to sting.

Okay, that actually hurt a little.

As she gets dressed to go to the pub, she notices with some amusement that she actually _does_ feel better. Maybe giving herself a pep talk is something she needs to do more often.

Brigitte barges out of her room and positively skips into the kitchen. “Okay, where we going tonight?” She chirps.

Reinhardt eyes her strangely at her as he pulls on his boots. Maybe she’s overdone it a little with the enthusiasm. “Tonight is your choice, S _hildlein_. I have picked the last four nights.”

Oh, that’s true. It doesn’t take long for her to pick; she always wants the same place.

“ _Bäckerei-Bar!_ ”

 _Bäckerei-Bar_ is exactly what it sounds like. A bakery, with a bar attached. It’s relatively new to the area, but it has quickly become one of her favorite haunts. It’s a little smaller than the other bars, but the atmosphere is much warmer, in no small part due to the fact that they churn out baked goods all morning and afternoon. She has to be careful not too go here too often, lest she spoil all her hard training but it’s _difficult_. When she pulls the car up, she can barely stop herself from bouncing in her seat as she drives. She knows that this place isn’t Reinhardt’s favorite as it doesn’t really have a good selection of dinner food, but there’s a sandwich shop just next door that they can grab something from before going home.

When the squire pushes open the front door the sweet smell of baked goods fills her nostrils. She practically floats to the bar, where she eagerly picks up a menu to see what new creations they have available. Among their regular fare of donuts, sweetbreads and pastries they have a few seasonal specials like pumpkin _Bienenstich_ and apple-cinnamon streusel. And of course there are _semlor!_

Brigitte orders one each of the seasonal specials and a hot milk as Reinhardt takes a seat next to her. She thrusts the menu at him so he can choose what he wants and then takes her time drooling over the glass cases that line the walls, full of various baked goods.

When her order arrives she sinks a fork into the _streusel_ and brings it to her mouth. Ah, she is in heaven! Each bite she savors, but too soon it is gone. Next is the _Bienenstitch_ , washed down with sips of her milk. By the time she picks up her _semla_ Reinhardt's order of beef _Bierocks_ appear. She eyes them amusedly. He doesn't really have an appreciation for dessert.

 _Semla_ is the _best_ . She eats it as slowly as she can manage without torturing herself. The delicate flavor of the almond paste, the airy texture of the bread, the sweetness that is not _too_ sweet, but just right: she is in heaven. When it's gone she mourns. She could easily order another dozen _semlor_ but no, she must not. Eating it too often will spoil her enjoyment of it.

They are currently the only two inside the bar, so she has no other regulars to chat with. She nudges Reinhardt in the side.

“How are your _Bierocks_?” Of course, she manages to ask the question the instant he takes a mouthful of one. In lieu of him answering with his mouth full, she leans over and snags a bite of it before it makes it to his plate. He lets out an outraged noise; he can be very territorial when it comes to food.

“Hmm, those are pretty good. I may have to get one next time!” She smiles and takes another bite of _semla_.

They don’t stick around long at the bar as it closes earlier than all the rest. Brigitte orders half a dozen donuts to go, thinking that she deserves a treat for getting herself back on track. They go to the sandwich shop next door and pick up some to go; a beer brat sandwich for her, currywurst for Reinhardt. They will go quite well with some of the drinks they have back home.

In the kitchen they load their sandwiches onto plates and pour some cold brews into frosted steins. She eats through hers and thumbs through the news on her holopad, looking for the scores of the women’s football game.

“Brigitte, there’s something we need to talk about.” Reinhardt’s serious tone interrupts her musing, sending a frisson of dread through her. Oh no. He wants to talk about _it_.

 _Well of course he wants to talk about it!_ She thinks furiously to herself. _You haven’t exactly been subtle about how much it’s bothering you!_ If only she could have gotten ahold of her feelings sooner, or at least acted natural! This could set everything back!

“You've seemed...distracted, lately.” He continues, looking at her steadily over his plate. She meets his gaze evenly, trying to keep her uneasiness from showing. “You have been performing poorly during sparring, you --” Wait, _that’s_ an opening she can take!

“I was just taking it easy on you!” She interrupts him, smirking and bluffing bravado. “I thought you needed a break after how much I kicked your butt on Tuesday, but I won’t be so nice tomorrow!”

It works; he is thoroughly distracted from his train of thought.

“Taking it _easy on me?_ ” He exclaims, mouth agape.

“Yep.” She pops the last bite of sandwich into her mouth, oozing smugness. “Tomorrow, you’re going _down.”_ She gets up from the table with her dishes, turning her back to him to rinse them in the sink.

“Hmph!” The knight splutters behind her, trying to find a retort. “That’s brave talk _Shildlein_ , considering your performance lately!”

She whirls on him, dishes forgotten, and stalks back to the table.

“Alright then,” she purrs. “Howabout a little wager? First one to pin tomorrow gets to pick dinner locations for the next week.” When he opens his mouth to reply, she adds, “ _And_ loser has to pay!” _He can never resist a challenge._

“ _Hah,_ you have a DEAL!” Reinhardt exclaims, extending his arm for her to clasp. They grip each other’s forearms to seal the pact; her hand barely encircles half of his huge wrist.

“You better get some serious beauty rest tonight old man, you’re going to need it!” Brigitte calls over her shoulder as she swaggers to her room, dishes forgotten. His echoing laugh follows her until she closes the door, and then she throws herself onto her bed grinning. Well, that had been easier than she had though. Now all she has to do is follow through.

Sleep that night comes easily. How could it not? The last few night’s rest had hardly been restful; she had tossed and turned for hours. When she wakes the following morning she feels like a new woman; she hums as she brushes her teeth and changes clothes. She eats breakfast with Reinhardt and then together they take a walk through the forested german countryside. She whistles back at the birds when they sing, her breath puffing in white clouds through her pursed lips.

When they get back to the castle Brigitte washes the dishes that have been left in the sink while Reinhardt goes to train. Then she retires to her own workshop where she is tweaking her armor. Abandoned on half of her work space are the materials for her shield; she has the tecra-magnesium on order and the molds in which will cast the pieces are already waiting. The particle field generators cannot be set until the metal is cool, but they have all been tested and await insertion.

Today she is working on her flail. She wants to increase the rotational kinetic energy of the reeling mechanism so that when she extends it to strike, it returns more quickly. She thinks perhaps it could be improved upon if she can reduce the friction of the surfaces inside…

Lost in thought, she is busy calculating the coefficients of friction, searching up industrial lubricants and toying with the idea of reworking the system altogether when her stomach growls. She checks her watch; it is almost 1! She races off to lunch, decides she needs to eat a smaller meal so she won’t be sluggish for their sparring tonight, and then returns to her workshop.

The metalsmith sets up to practice her drills; a padded moving target on an empty wall of the workshop clanks to life and begins darting like a spider along its surface. She takes up her flail and shield, holding the barrier guardedly as though facing an imaginary foe. The target pauses for a second, and she lashes out with the flail; it strikes just to the right of the center.

Over and over again she strikes, varying her distances and speed. Brigitte practices until her arms quiver with fatigue, and then rests. She stretches her muscles, massaging them with her hands as though she can squeeze the exhaustion from them. She needs to be in top form for their sparring tonight.

She abandons practice early in favor of returning to her room to change and scheme. As she pulls her leg pads, she thinks she might have a strategy. Most of the time, she spars more defensively. Reinhardt is too strong for her to simply rush in headfirst and attack; she has to wear him down through dodging, or capitalize on a particularly big mistake. That’s why most of her pins come near the end of the session, when he is tired. But perhaps there is a way to take first victory tonight.

As she puts her hair up in front of the mirror, she tries a little more of that self-talk that worked so well yesterday.

“You will win this. You _will!_ ” She tells herself, pointing into mirror-Brigitte’s face.

Whether or not she wins or loses isn’t strictly the point; she had already succeeded in her objective of distracting him from another embarrassing conversation. Now it’s simply a matter of pride.

She goes to the dojo early, kneeling in the center of the mats and simply waits.


	4. Chapter 4

When Reinhardt goes to the dojo that evening he is glad to see that Brigitte is waiting for him, chin up and gaze steady. Whatever had been troubling her the last few nights ( _Hmm, as if you didn’t know exactly what_ ** _that_** _was about_ Amari laughs) has vanished, returning to him the bold squire he knows so well.

He goes to meet her eagerly, and they bow to each other. The stakes of tonight’s session are high, and he hopes to secure the victory. He can almost taste the currywurst now--

Brigitte strikes out suddenly, catching him off-guard. He absorbs the blow with his forearm pad, grunting. She continues the attack, lashing out at his forward leg and he avoids the hit. When she gets close enough for him to attempt a takedown, he reaches for her but she dances free of his grasp.

She must be feeling _very_ confident tonight.

This confidence will be her undoing. As she evades his strikes, he changes the angle of his attacks, trying to catch her off guard. It works. When he feints a jab with his right hand, she bobs away from it and into his strike at her left side. She trips, landing on her knees on the mat. The knight lunges after her, preparing to take her to the floor when she grabs for him at the waist, pulling him _into_ her. Reinhardt is not expecting it, nor is he expecting the throw when she rolls onto her back and plants her tucked feet into his stomach, using his momentum to vault him over her.

Then, she has him.

Quick as a snake she pivots toward him, one leg hooking around his throat and locking behind the knee of the other leg that is thrown over his chest. She squeezes lightly, and he can feel pressure on his neck, threatening to cut off his circulation. A head scissor lock, amazing! He has never even attempted it! He tries to throw the leg on his chest off, but each movement only tightens her hold. He recognizes defeat when her thighs squeeze together, tight enough to make him lightheaded.

He submits.

Instantly she releases him, jumping to her feet. She reaches down to help him up, a triumphant grin on her face. He accepts the hand, and though he is tempted to pull her down into him and put her into an unexpected headlock, he doesn’t. He is more honorable than that.

He can’t help but grumble mentally at the thought that there will be a lot more visits to _Bäckerei-Bar_ in his future.

They continue to spar for the remaining hour, and though he wins several rounds he can see the glow of victory in his squire's face at each turn. He is glad to see it; the loss is worth that smile.

Once they've cleaned, they have scarcely set foot out of the dojo when Brigitte accosts him.

“Soooo,” She sing-songs, nudging him in the side. “How do you feel about _Bäckerei-Bar_ tonight?”

He groans a little, but wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her against him, mussing her hair to show his amusement. “You won our wager fair and square, _Shildlein_. We go wherever you wish!”

“Wherever I wish, huh?”  She says, ducking out of his grip. “Well, what if I want to stay home?”

“We can stay if you want. I am sure there are many places that deliver.” He shrugs, padding into the kitchen. As he pours himself a glass of water he pilfers a slice of lemon from his breakfast supplies. The taste has really begun to grown on him.

“No, I mean I want _you_ to cook dinner!” She takes the water pitcher from him and pours her own glass. She eyes him over the lip of her drink, waiting for his reaction.

The routine of their household is such that it is he who cooks breakfast, they each fix their own lunches and dinner is usually out. On the days that they do not spar, Brigitte cooks their dinner. So, this is how she wants to take her reward?

“Certainly!” He says, pouring himself more water. “But, with what groceries?” Their weekly shopping trip usually consists of enough groceries for meals for the week. They keep the odd snacks around in case one of them gets peckish, but as far as extra supplies for impromptu meals…

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. You’ll see after your shower!” And with that mysterious pronouncement, she bounds off to her own room.

_What game is she playing?_

He finds out as soon as he leaves his bedroom. From here he can see she has arranged ingredients on the kitchen island, and even pulled out bowls and utensils for cooking. She looks up from fetching the measuring spoons as she hears him approach. “I think _Jalfrezi_ sounds pretty good, don’t you?”

He looks at the spread of groceries and raises an eyebrow. “When did you get all this?”

“Wellllll, you know.” She picks up her holopad, tapping something on the screen. “I _might_ have picked some groceries up super early this morning and hidden them somewhere.”

The cheek of her! She had planned this before even securing a victory! What would she have done if she had lost? He asks her as much, and she smirks. “I figure I would have just used this for dinner tomorrow.”

“Look, I even found a recipe that looks good!” She shows him the tablet. He takes it from her with a groan of fake-exasperation and sets to work.

He has made curry before, but never _Jalfrezi_. It doesn’t prove to be much different from his usual recipe though, and with Brigitte’s help the preparation goes quickly. She chops the vegetables while he prepares the chicken. She works on the rice while he prepares the sauce, and even washes the dishes as he finishes using them. He tries to help her dry them when he has a moment but she shooes him away.

“Just because I’m making you cook doesn’t mean I won’t do my fair share!” She scolds, even as he argues that it is her reward, but she insists.

Once the food is ready, he serves up two steaming plates and hands her one.

“Looks pretty good.” She remarks, sniffing it appreciatively. “But you know what would make it even better?”

“ _Bier_?” He guesses, and she rolls her eyes.

“No! I mean, well, yes but that’s not what I meant!” She fetches two bottles from the fridge and pops the caps. “What I mean is, we should turn this into a movie night!”

He contemplates it for a moment. The idea has merit; since they stayed in tonight they have more time to themselves than usual. Sunday evening is their dedicated movie night, but he _does_ have several films he’s been meaning to see…

“I’ll even let you pick what we watch!” She wheedles, which seals the deal.

They take their food to the living room and arrange themselves on the sofa. Reinhardt flips through the movie selection until he finds the one he wants, and Brigitte groans when she sees the title.

“ _Roses of Florence?_ ” She says, her mouth half-full of rice. “That sounds like one of your sappy rom-droms.”

From the summary he has read on the movie, it is very likely to be. He doesn’t tell her that though, just grumbles a cryptic “You’ll have to wait and see.” and hits PLAY.

The camera pans across a lush, green field dotted with bright red blooms. It focuses on the foreground, where a vase of crimson roses sits, beaded with dew. A woman’s hand reaches down, plucks up one of the roses and then dashes it to the ground to the swell of violins.

He studiously ignores Brigitte, who he is sure is already making gagging faces at him. She likes to poke fun at his love for dramas, but he gets his revenge by making fun of her love for true crime shows.

They sit in silence as the movie progresses. Soon after they start Brigitte gets up to pop some popcorn and returns with a large wooden bowl of buttery kernels that she slides between them so they can share. The popcorn dwindles as the light slowly fades out of the room and night falls.

On the screen the protagonist, Sofia Russo is arguing with her father, Crime Lord Don Russo, saying he should spare the handsome young man Lorenzo who owes him money. That Lorenzo is the son of a wealthy businessman and he can be used as a ransom. Reinhardt knows as well as any other viewer that she is secretly in love with Lorenzo.

There is a warm weight against his arm.

The knight looks down to see his squire resting there; she has slid from her upright position sideways so her arm butts up against his elbow. Her head is nodding like a heavy flower, her eyes half-lidded.  Watching her try not to fall asleep is almost as entertaining as the movie. Eventually she succumbs, her head lolling back against the couch and her breath evening into a soft, whistling sigh. He notices the popcorn bowl is has been pushed precariously to the edge of the sofa and moves it to the coffee table.

Reinhardt watches the movie through until the screen darkens and credits roll. Sofia Russo has ascended to take her father’s place, murdering him to save her lover’s life. When she caught Lorenzo cheating she had killed him too, his blood spreading from his body in a brilliant crimson halo that fades into an image of a rose. Truly a tragedy. He flips the screen off, leaving the room in darkness. He nudges Brigitte with his shoulder, but she doesn’t stir; she is well and truly asleep. He would feel bad waking her up, which leaves only one option.

Carefully he gathers his squire into his arms;  one tucked beneath her knees, the other around her shoulders. He gets up from the couch, (wincing a little as his knees pop) and makes his way gingerly toward their bedrooms. He shoulders her door open and tucks her into her messy bed, pulling the covers up to her shoulders.

He hasn’t done this since she was small.

Feeling a warm swell of tenderness that has nothing to do with the movie, he smoothes a few strands of hair from her brow.

He leaves her room, the words unspoken.  
  
_Sleep well, Shildlein._


	5. Chapter 5

When Brigitte wakes the next morning, she can’t quite remember how she got to bed. She sits up, feeling a dull ache in her scalp. When she reaches up she feels that her hair is still in its ponytail; she must have fallen asleep during the movie. Which means that Reinhardt must have carried her to bed.

That’s...kind of embarrassing. She hasn’t done that since she was a child! She normally has no problem staying up late--usually outpacing Reinhardt in that department--but perhaps she’s still catching up on the sleep she missed earlier that week. Oh well, if she gets a little extra ribbing from about it she’ll remind him about the time she found him asleep at the kitchen table. She rolls out of bed, tugging her hair out of its tie and rubbing the soreness out of her scalp.

Brigitte takes pity on Reinhardt and only chooses _Bäckerei-Bar_ once out of the next four evenings, sticking with their usual bar haunts except for on Sunday when they stay in and she makes some passable stir-fry. That night, which is their usual movie night she chooses _To Kill a Murderer_ as a counter to Reinhardt’s exceptionally dull romance of the night before.

 _“Are they even trying anymore with these movies?”_ The knight laments as soon as he sees the title. He then goes into a rant about the declining quality of the film industry in general, starting with the less-than-inspired directors who title their films such, and-- she tunes him out. She doesn’t care what he says, true crime is way more interesting than romance. Besides, she’s heard good things about this movie, he’ll see!

In the end, after a surprising twist in the last five minutes of the film, Reinhardt is forced to concede that the movie did perhaps have a better plot than he thought it would have.

On the final night of her dinner selections, they find themselves back in _Schwartz Taverne_. Brigitte is nursing a sore ear; she thinks that maybe she should invest in a helmet for their sparring at some point. Usually the arm and leg pads are enough, but they’ve switched from grappling back to dueling-style martial arts. Reinhardt likes to cycle through different forms of training weekly, “to keep the muscles confused” and make them stronger. This week their sparring sessions include the use of padded _kali_ sticks and shields, and she hadn’t been quick enough to block Reinhardt’s _kali_ when he struck.

Ella already has their usual drinks poured by the time they make it up to the bar, and she leans in when they take a seat.

“Evening, you two,” she greets,  sliding the drinks to them. “Before you get to ordering, I have something I’m supposed to give you, Reinhardt.” She reaches beneath the bar, pulling out a cream-covered envelope. “Fella came in about two days ago looking for you, I said I’d pass it on.”

Reinhardt takes the envelope, turning it over in his hands. He opts not to open it, instead passing it to Brigitte, who does the same. She even holds it up to the light to see if she can read what’s inside, but the paper is too thick.

“What did this man look like?” the knight asks, clasping his hands around his drink.

“Oh, pretty average sort. Older, white-haired, kinda short. Seemed like he might be a farmer.” Ella shrugs.

“Did he give a name?” Brigitte wants to know; the description doesn’t sound like anyone they should know. She turns the creamy paper over in her hands, thumbs its pointed corners. Letters are unusual; hardly anyone uses paper post anymore when email is so much more efficient.

“‘Fraid not,” Ella sighs. “I should’ve asked.”

Reinhardt waves a hand dismissively. “No matter, Ella. Thank you for carrying the message.” Brigitte hands him back the envelope, which he tucks inside his jacket. They will open it together later, away from curious eyes.

They order their entrees and Reinhardt becomes distracted by the football game playing on the bar’s television, but Brigitte is sidetracked by her own thoughts. She’s _very_ curious about the letter. If it were up to her she would have driven them back home right away to open it, but she must be patient. As she chews on an onion tart her mind races, thinking of all the possible things that could be inside it.

A letter from Artur? No, unlikely. He and Reinhardt had each other’s information now, they could email or holo-call if they wanted to talk. Is there something dangerous in the envelope? She remembers back in not-so-distant history when people were killed with biological agents that were passed by letters. Reinhardt _was_ a member of Overwatch and it was no secret in this little town, though all the locals seemed content to keep the information to themselves. No, tech-bombs were the warfare of choice now against important officials. Easy to deploy remotely, difficult (nigh impossible) to track, and very deadly. Maybe it was a love letter?

She had to cover her mouth to stifle a giggle. Yes, _that_ was possible. It wouldn’t be the first time either. Reinhardt had been very popular after his time with the Crusaders, and even after the fall of Overwatch. Maybe that old guy had been a soldier he had saved during the war, or a relative of someone he’d saved! Or maybe just a run of the mill pervy old man. If so such a suitor would surely be disappointed; as far as she could tell Reinhardt wasn’t looking for a relationship with a ma--or anyone else.

Brigitte abandons her train of thought as their meal arrives. She will only drive herself crazy with the possibilities if she thinks any longer; better to just enjoy the food and the company. She tucks into her _Spätzle_ with gusto and joins the rest of the bar in watching _Die Mannschaft_ play South Korea.

“That was a close game.” She remarks as they head out the door of the tavern and climb into their car. “I’m glad they were able to pull out the win, I think Ella might have had a heart attack if they hadn’t.” Reinhardt laughs in agreement, as if he weren’t being almost as dramatic as the barmaid back there.

On the way home with nothing to distract her from it anymore, Brigitte gives in to her curiosity. “So...what do you think is in the letter?”

The knight is silent, mulling it over. “I am not sure.”

“I bet it’s a _looooove letter,"_  she jokes, reaching over to poke him for emphasis on the last two words. He bats her hand away. “C’mon what if some old guy has the hots for you!”

“I think not,” he grunts, and she can see his expression wrinkle in distaste. Solid no on that front then. “But if you get us home faster, we will be able to find out!”

She speeds the rest of the way back, much to his chagrin.

When they get inside, she holds her hand out, beckoning for the envelope. “I want to take it to my workshop to open it. You know, make sure it’s not dangerous.” He hands it over, rolling his eyes a little bit as he does.

“I do not think--” he begins, but she takes off downstairs and doesn’t hear the rest.

Once inside her studio she squishes the paper between her fingers, testing it. It doesn’t feel like there’s anything in it beyond, well, more paper. To be safe she slides it into her hydraulic press and clamps down on it for a few seconds. When she releases the the pressure the letter remains undamaged. Reinhardt is watching her from the door, shaking his head a little at her antics.

“I’m going to open it, okay?” she asks, sliding on a pair of cut-resistant gloves and picking up a box cutter. As an afterthought she adds the extra protection of her welding shield, that way at least she won’t inhale anything funny. She slides the knife under the lip of the envelope, slicing cleanly through the creamy paper and then shaking the contents out onto the floor. A folded letter flutters to the ground, and that’s it. No explosions, no puff of strange dust, no freaky nude photos.

“Well, I guess it’s okay then.” She shrugs, handing him the letter and envelope. He remarks that her overzealousness reminds him of her father, and then sets to reading. It takes everything in her to not climb onto his back and read it over his shoulder.

“We have a request,” he says once he is finished, and hands her the letter to read for herself.

A request?

Back before the Overwatch recall they had traveled the European countryside mopping up local crime and generally helping where they could. They had even set up a contact system where people could request their assistance; whether it be stopping vandals, retrieving stolen property, or rounding up loosed pigs ( _that_ had been a memorable mission); there were not many requests they turned down.  Usually the solicitations came via email, where they had set up a special address for such a purpose. But once Reinhardt had been called back into active duty they had purged that account and shut it all down. He would be too busy to take on such things anymore after all.

She looks down at the rows of surprisingly neat handwriting, scanning the letter quickly.

The request comes from a man in east Germany who has has a collection of expensive farming equipment and antiques. He has been having trouble lately with thieves stealing his equipment at night, and wants their help in apprehending the looters. If they choose to help, their reimbursement will be significant (about which she cares little; they don’t do this for the reward), and he would like to hear back from them as soon as possible. His contact info is included in the letter as well as his name: Andreas Mayer.

Brigitte looks up at him once she finishes reading. “A mission?” She hands him back the letter. “Well, you’re not taking any requests now. You’ll be back with Overwatch in three weeks.” At his pensive expression, she balks. “You’re not thinking of taking it, are you?”

The knight runs a hand through his hair. “Well…” he hems, finding the words. “Overwatch does not have a planned mission anytime soon. Winston and Athena are still trying to locate many of the former members, as well as recruit new ones. I think it will be some time before I receive any official assignments.” He taps the papers against his palm. “And this Andreas went to a lot of trouble to seek our help.”

Brigitte isn’t sure how to feel about this. “Well, what if Winston needs us early? He only gave that extra time so that people like Dr. Ziegler could wrap up their work outside Overwatch.” She argues further, “And isn’t it a little weird that he came searching for _us_ , instead of calling the police?”

Reinhardt frowns. “That is a little strange. But perhaps this man is one of those people who distrusts law enforcement.” That is certainly plausible. The public opinion on enforcers was at an all-time low, after all. The knight sighs tiredly. “Well, I do not think it would hurt to give him a call at least.”

It’s obvious that this Andreas has impressed him by the lengths he went to to procure their services. It speaks of a certain dogged determination--or else perhaps desperation.

Brigitte follows him as he makes his way upstairs, stops him with a hand on his shoulder before he can disappear into his room. “Whatever you decide to do, I’m there.” She wants him to know that despite her doubts she will back him up completely. Even if she doesn’t always trust his judgement, she trusts that he will be completely transparent with her. She also trusts that she’ll be there to get him out of any sticky situation he gets himself into.

He gives her a small smile, wraps one arm around her in a tight side-hug that she leans into.

“I know, _Shildlein_.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today, the next one will be much longer.

The next day Reinhardt calls Andreas just before lunch. Brigitte is currently out; she left earlier that morning for Frankfurt, where the Ironclad Guild has a satellite office. Her order of tecra-magnesium has been delivered there, and she wants to retrieve it as soon as possible.

As he looks down at his holopad, he wonders briefly if he should even even be calling. Brigitte may be right; a mission so close to the time he will be returning to active duty could delay them. Before he has a chance to hang up, the call goes through.

“ _Hallo?_ ” A man’s voice answers, loud and gravelly. No image comes up on Reinhardt’s holopad; either the man has a damaged pad, or this number goes through to a cellphone. No matter.

“Is this Andreas Mayer?”

The man answers warily. “Yes, who’s calling?”

Reinhardt introduces himself, references the letter that had been left with Ella and the request within. Once the farmer hears who’s calling, his cautious tone seems to fade. It’s not too unusual to be suspicious of strange numbers, so Reinhardt allows the man his paranoia. He asks if Andreas can give him more details about the thefts on his property.

“Well, ‘bout two weeks ago I started noticing equipment goin’ missing.” The man launches into his tale with gusto. “I keep most of it in the field a ways behind my house, y’see. Not sure how long they’ve been takin’ stuff, I don’t go back there a lot when it’s not growin’ season. But I went out there and saw an item or two missin’. Then, the next time I checked more was gone. I tried to stay up late one night, see if I could catch the fella that was doin’ it. Only thing is, seems like it’s more’n one person!”

More than one thief, eh? This gentleman must have some very valuable property to gain the interest of a bandit gang.

“I couldn’t see much. Saw the shapes of people movin’ around, and this red light kept flashing on and off but that was it. When I checked in the morning, more stuff was stolen.” Andreas continues, his voice taking on the droning tone of a man who continues to talk for awhile. “So, I knew right away I had to do somethin’. I can’t handle no group of thieves. I went into town, askin’ around seein’ if anyone knew anything about you. I’d heard the tales; you, goin’ around the countryside helpin’ people out. So I--”

“Why have you not called the police?” Reinhardt interrupts, troubled. This seems like the most obvious course of action.

“Oh, uh, well,” Andreas’s voice shifts, his tone wary again. “Some of that stuff they’re stealin’ is...well, lets just say I don’t think the police would react very kindly if they knew I had it.”

 _There it is._ Brigitte had been right to question the man’s motives after all. He isn’t so sure about how he feels about assisting someone with what may be an illegal operation.

“Sir,” he says, sternly. “I am a knight, and as such I abide by a code of honor. I am duty-bound to uphold the law, and I cannot accept any tasks that would force me to break that code. I do not think--”

“Wait!” Andreas interrupts, panicked. “No! What I got, it ain’t _illegal!_ It’s just...it’s like--” he is struggling for the words. “It’s like--how people would feel if I had copies of _Mein Kampf_ all over my house. Which I don’t. It just...people feel weird about this kind o’ thing.”

It is hard to verify the veracity of such statements over the phone, but Reinhardt thinks his voice has a ring of truth to it. He is half-tempted to ask what manner of “thing” is, but he doubts the man will want to admit it. Andreas has something--not illegal--but something he thinks the police may be unwilling to help him recover. It is possible, yes.

Brigitte is not here for him to discuss the matter with now. He must make this decision alone.

“If I come,” Reinhardt says, “I reserve the right to refuse your request, even after I’ve arrived.” There. That gives them some leeway to change their minds, as he is sure Brigitte will be happy about.

“Yes, of course!” Andreas sounds like he is relieved to not be rejected completely. He provides his address to Reinhardt, who takes it down. They arrange for him to arrive the following day, as Andreas is eager to preserve what remains of his items. As Reinhardt ends the call he scrubs a hand over his face, thinking.

They’ve travelled far and wide, helping others and righting wrongs wherever they found them. This excursion will perhaps be a little more morally ambiguous than any of the others, but now that he has given his word he is duty-bound to at least investigate it. It’s possible that Brigitte will reject it on principle, and he will surely listen to what she has to say on the matter but he may have to convince her to at least _go_. 

Well, it does him no good to worry too much about it until she gets back. He gets up from the table and heads to his workshop. He must prepare for the trip.

When Brigitte arrives home it is nearing 3 o’clock. He can hear her footsteps coming down the stairs, sees her nudge open the door to her workshop wider to accommodate the large box she carries. He abandons the van where he has just finished settling his armor and goes to her.

She looks up as he enters, sliding the blade of a boxcutter into the tape that holds the box closed. “So, what do you think? Going to take the request?”

He tells her everything Andreas said, as well as his own thoughts on the matter. When he is done, she is leaning against her workbench, brow knitted.

“I don’t know about this, Reinhardt. How do you know he’s not lying about his ‘probably not illegal’ stuff? It could just be a trick to get you out there.” She chews her lip, absentmindedly flicking the tip of the boxcutter in and out.

“That could be so _Shildlein,_ but I have told him I will refuse if I find any hint of deception.” And he will do it, too. He will _not_ be taken advantage of.

“Wellll...” she hems and haws, still uncertain.  After some deliberation, she finally agrees. “Okay, since you gave us an out.” She points the retracted boxcutter at him. “But we better get back in the next two days, no week-long stakeouts! I want to have time to finish working on my new shield before you return to active duty.”

Reinhardt swears on his honor that they will stay two nights at the most. “If the thieves have not returned by then, I will refer him to you. Perhaps he would be interested in a defensive perimeter,” he teases.

She blows a raspberry at him, waving him away and he retreats back to his workshop with a laugh.

Reinhardt spends the rest of the evening arranging his his equipment neatly into their van, and assisting Brigitte when she does the same with hers. She runs some last-minute checks on the particle generators in their shields, as well as topping off the fuel in his rocket hammer. He packs some snacks for the road and several changes of clothes. Their sparring session is postponed until they return, and instead they run a quick inspection on the van. It wasn’t that long ago that they were on the road, so there isn’t much to be done except ensure that the reactor is still running. Brigitte tests it by taking the van out for a five-minute drive to the main road and back; it runs as smoothly as ever.

That evening they stay in for their meal. Reinhardt picks a classic movie to watch: _The Avengers_. They sit through it in near silence; each deep in thought about the task tomorrow. When the film is over, they exchange goodnights and make their way to bed.

When his head is situated comfortably on his pillow, Reinhardt finds that he cannot sleep. His mind races, full of memories that the prospect of this mission has dredged up. Long days and nights on the road, traveling in search of wrongs to right. The road rolling beneath them like a long black treadmill. The ache of his wounds, soothed by a gentle hand. The crash of his hammer, shattering the landscape. The clang of a metal on metal. A woman’s laugh, rich and carefree. The shell of a once-great man, overgrown with moss.

 _Our legacies are our deeds,_  a corpse whispers.

He falls into uneasy sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

They set out the next day two hours after lunch. Their driving app has calculated the travel time at around 3 hours, but Brigitte wants to make sure to leave with plenty of leeway. The plan is to arrive in the evening, survey the area and then begin the stakeout at dusk. If they are lucky, they'll catch their quarry tonight.

She slides behind the wheel and hands Reinhardt her holopad so he can connect it to the sound system. Predictably, he selects a Hasselhoff tune. They glide smoothly out of the garage to the tune of _Hooked on a Feeling_ , buoyed by the new repulsors  that had been installed shortly after they returned from their last trip.

As the road rolls beneath them, Brigitte reflects on how being on the road again feels almost like coming home. They have spent much of the last four years in this van, only returning to the castle when Reinhardt had been too injured for travel or when she needed to do critical repairs on their equipment.

_The journey itself is home._

She's heard that somewhere before, but can't place where. Whoever said it, it fits perfectly with how she feels. Nothing to do but settle back, tap the cruise control and enjoy the ride.

One hour in and Reinhardt is leaning back in his seat dozing. Brigitte angles the holopad towards her so she can change the music to her playlist instead. As she does, her hand nudges the Overwatch comm link that sits next to it. She runs her fingers absently over the hard plastic, wondering. If Reinhardt hadn't kept this thing at full charge religiously, would he have heard the recall?

Undoubtedly. She is sure that one if the other members would have come searching for him, if not her own father. She had had her doubts, but in the end she knew that Reinhardt would never ignore a call for aid. Even when he had used by the callers so appallingly.

Her hand clenches on the wheel reflexively, old anger burning her gut. Anger _for_ him. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like, to give so much of yourself to something and then be cut out. Utterly rejected, without so much as a thank you.

_I have been called, I must answer. Always._

He had told her that before, at the resting place of the man who tasked him to the organization in the first place. She glances at the dozing knight briefly. Overwatch is lucky to have him; a man of his unwavering loyalty and conviction. _This_ time will be different, she'll see to that. She won’t let that happen to him again.

Reinhardt wakes from his nap about thirty minutes out from their destination, startled by the sudden decrease in speed as she turns the van off of the main road. They are headed southwest of Ulm, into farmlands far outside of any town. They drive through rolling hills broken by dense forest, the paved roads becoming dirt. One final turn takes them onto a long, winding path flanked by more lush forest. The holopad chimes softly as they round a corner, revealing an old two-story house with a sprawling yard. She parks the van next to a large wood pile that backs up to the edge of the forest.

By the time she and Reinhardt have exited the vehicle, she can hear the creak of a door as a man exits the front of his house to meet them. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and an off-white shirt, his skin tanned and weathered. He looks every inch a farmer.

“Reinhardt Wilhelm?” he says as he approaches, holding out his hand. “Andreas Mayer. Thank you fer comin’.” Reinhardt reaches out to grip the farmers hand, then introduces Brigitte who shakes it also. His grip is firm, his skin tough like an old shoe. “Afore I take ya out back, is there anythin’ I can get you folks? Got water inside, c’n make some coffee if ya prefer.”

“Thank you, maybe later,” she replies politely. She probably will take him up on that coffee before they begin their stakeout. Reinhardt also refuses.

“Alright then,” Andreas says, and gestures for them to follow. “C’mon over here and I’ll take ya there.”

As it turns out, the equipment that is being stolen is quite a ways from Andreas’s house. Nearly a mile, if she judges correctly. He has a heavy-duty ATV that they perch cautiously on as he ferries them to the distant location. They pass through the forest behind his house on overgrown tracks that the quad has dug over the years, and she has to hold on tight to avoid being bounced on the rough terrain. Her rump is rapidly beginning to protest, and she thinks longingly of the repulsors on the van. Eventually the forest opens up to an impressive clearing. The grass is quite long in some places, but she can make out mounds of metal through it.  They look strangely familiar.

“Ya might be able to see now why I didn’t want ta call the police.”Andreas grunts, slowing the ATV and cutting the engine.

Brigitte barely manages to stifle her gasp. Though she’s never seen one in person, she’s seen enough of the old vids and pictures to recognize them immediately: Bastion Siege Automatons. Many of them are rusted or overgrown with weeds but she can still make out the model number on their side plating: 54, the scourges of the Omnic Crisis.

There’s only a moments stunned disbelief before the questions come flooding into her mind. _How did he get these?_ _Where did he get them?_ And probably most importantly: _Why does he have them?_ She can’t conceive of a single reason that an average person would own outlawed tech like this.

The more she looks, the more her awe grows. He has rows upon rows of them, more than 40 by her count and all in relatively good condition. Not only that he has other omnics too-- B37s, pieces if what looks like a Titan, and even two mostly intact OR14s.

She looks wide-eyed up at Reinhardt, catches his gaze. His face is grim, his mouth set. He gives her a short shake of his head, as if to say _we'll discuss this later_.

“How did you acquire these, Andreas?” The knight asks. His tone is light, curious; carefully avoiding any hint of accusation.

“They're m'son's, actually.” Andreas makes his way slowly around the rows of omnic remains, hands slipping into his pockets. “Not sure how he got 'em. He didn't have nowhere to put them so he started bringin’ em here.Think he was gonna try to sell 'em to museums to earn some money or somethin’. He never really explained it to me. Didn’t even know what he was collectin’ until...well...” The old farmer trails off, stopping at the end of the furthest row.

“He died. An’ when I saw what he’d done, I wasn't sure of the best way to get rid of 'em. So I left 'em here. Thought about buryin’ em, but... I never got aroun’ to it.” He shrugs, turning away from them. The rasp in his voice; if she had been asked to describe grief, it would have been that sound. His son’s death is no lie.

When they come to where Andreas is standing, Brigitte can see patches of bare land where something has evidently been moved. It is obvious that this marks where the thieves have been. She can see more exposed dirt in rows ahead. It appears that the bandits have made off with approximately a quarter of the farmer’s stash.

“Not sure how they've been stealin’ ‘em.l,” Andreas remarks, gesturing at the bare ground. He gains control of his voice. “They're pretty heavy, an’ there's no tracks or nothing's that I've seen. That night I tried spyin’ all I could see was a red light flashin’ on and off, an’ in the mornin’ more were gone.”

He turned to face them squarely, hands still wedged firmly in his pockets.

“So, will ya help me?” The hope is evident in his voice. Brigitte looks to Reinhardt, who will give the final answer.

The knights gaze travels slowly over the metal carcasses, his expression neutral. “My squire and I must talk before I give my decision. If you will permit us a moment to speak in private?”

“Sure, sure!” Andreas says, gesturing at them with an open-palmed wave of both his hands. “Take your time.”

They retreat a distance from him, partway into the woods so that they can't be overheard. As soon as they are out of earshot, Brigitte cannot contain herself anymore.

“ _He has siege automatons!” s_ he hisses at Reinhardt, her voice tense. “I thought those were all destroyed after the war!” It is unthinkable that so many could be still laying around, and in such good condition. What if they reactivated?

“I know.,” Reinhardt sighs heavily. “I can hardly believe it myself.” He leans against a tree, folding his arms. “His son must have gone to great lengths to get them.”

“Yeah, and that’s not shady at all,” Brigitte quips sarcastically. She doesn’t like this one bit. “This whole situation stinks. What kind of thieves are carting these off?”

Reinhardt strokes his beard thoughtfully. Around his back she can see Andreas picking his way through the rows of omnics. “It could be that the thieves are stealing them to sell. They would fetch a high price, to the right buyer. Or they could be scrapping them, it is impossible to say.” He sighs again. “It would do him well to be rid of them, honestly.”

 _As long as they’re not falling into the wrong hands,_ she thinks. How could Andreas even dispose of them now without getting into a whole bunch of legal trouble, short of dumping them into the ocean or burying them? Legal trouble... _legal trouble_. She has an idea.

“Do you think he would give them to us?” she asks, still watching the old farmer as he walks around the clearing. “He didn’t talk like he was all that attached to them. What if--” she hastens to talk, seeing Reinhardt open his mouth as if to interrupt, “What if we make a deal with him: we’ll take care of the thieves, as long as he gives us the omnics? We can either take them ourselves or get Overwatch to. Heck, we could use them for target practice or something.” Hah, she thinks she will have to fight her father for possession of them. She’s sure he will want to tear them apart, but she would like to study them a little.

“That is..not a bad idea, _Shildlein,_ ” Reinhardt sounds a little bit surprised at her suggestion, but not opposed. “It is good thinking. And if he does not agree, we will leave!” He claps a hand on her shoulder and flashes her an approving smile before they head back to Andreas.

The farmer is surprisingly quick to accept the proposal. “Hell, you’d be doin’ me a favor, gettin’ rid of them things.” He grunts, kicking one of the E54’s and causing Brigitte to wince. “I’ll even help ya move ‘em when ya do.”

They ride back up to his house and take him up on his offer of refreshment. While there, Brigitte whips up a contract on her holopad, searching the internet to figure out how to make the document legally binding. They don’t want to run into any issues down the road, after all. It takes one helpful template and a do-it-yourself website, and in no time at all she has a document that she thinks will cover them decently.

She has Andreas sign and date it, and then they shared a drink. He brews a pot of coffee that is surprisingly tasty and offers them the use of his ATV, which is a pleasant surprise. They both take an extra cup of the coffee with them when they retreat to the van to strategize.

First, they return to the clearing to scout out the nearby woods. It seems logical to Brigitte that the thieves are approaching the clearing from any direction that is _not_ in the direction of Andreas’s house, so that is where they will hide before the ambush. Despite examining the ground and woods around where the omnics have been removed, they can find no trace of tracks; it is likely the bandits have repulsors on any vehicles they have. Increasingly as they search she begins to wonder how the thieves found this place at all; the surrounding woods are dense and extensive. Did they perhaps know Andreas’s son?

She has Reinhardt stand in the woods, moving him among the trees until he can’t be seen from where she stands in the last row of omnics. It will be dark when they lie in wait  tonight so that will aid their cover, but she knows that their armor can throw reflections, especially if the thieves have high-powered flashlights.

By a quarter-til 8 they have returned to the van and begin the process of donning their armor, testing their shields and oiling any squeaky joints. Then, it is time. They head back out, the ATV groaning under the added weight of their weaponry. Brigitte stashes the vehicle about a quarter-mile from the clearing, and they take up their posts.

Waiting is her _least_ favorite thing.

One hour in and Brigitte thinks she might fall asleep. It's hot in her armor even though the night is cooling off, and nothing is happening except for the occasional skitter of a squirrel through the trees. She fantasizes for a little while about installing a locking feature into her armor so that she could fall asleep standing up. Perhaps that will be her next prototype...

The night wears on, the half-moon rising high above them. It casts the clearing into a hazy glow, the woods an interminable black around them.

Then, a sound.

There is the rustling of something moving through the trees. Very faint, so quiet that at first she thinks it’s just the wind. She perks up, tilting her ear towards the clearing. Sure enough, the rustling becomes louder, and as she watches out of the woods opposite them appears three figures.

They're clad in black, blending with the trees except for the lightness of their exposed skin. They make their way into the clearing, boldly sauntering up to the omnic remains; clearly, they have done this before. One of them pulls something out from a bag that she can't quite make out, while the other two fiddle with their belts. They begin shining lights on the omnics, looking them up and down. She wishes she were close enough to see what they're doing.

One if the--men? She can't quite tell-- gestures to an omnic he has been examining and the person with the bag moves forward. He kneels, disappearing from her sight. Next to her Reinhardt shifts slightly. The moment they see them start to move the omnics, they will strike.

Out in the field, a sudden glow of light. A portal winks into being like a huge red eye and the B54 disappears. Her mouth drops open. _They have a portal?!_ That’s Vishkar tech! She glances at Reinhardt, who nods to her before donning his helmet. Hard light technology or not, this is the moment they are to strike. They move to the edge of the forest and as they do, her disquiet grows. Normal thieves do _not_ have this kind of advanced hardware. They’re working _for_ someone.

The men move on to the next unit, giving it the same treatment. While they are distracted she and Reinhardt close in on them slowly, using the black backdrop of the forest as their camouflage. They are fortunate that the wind masks their approach, otherwise this would be much harder. She fingers the large rock clenched in her hand, waiting for the signal. When the knight gives it with a flick of his gloved fingers, she hurls it hard.

The rock thumps into the grass behind the thieves and they startle, turning toward the noise. At that moment she brings her mace to bear and closes the distance to them with Reinhardt taking the lead. The knight charges and the roar of his rocket booster alerts them; they turn just in time for him to take the closest two out with one sweep of his outstretched arms. She launches the head of the mace at the third man who scrambles out of the way, fumbling for his waist. He pulls out a gun just as she raises her shield.

The sharp reports of gunfire ring out across the field, combining with the resounding _crack_ of Reinhardt impacting the trees. Behind the glow of her shield she can see him recovering from the hit. He had been able to keep ahold of one thief, who lies in a crumpled heap. The other struggles to his feet, halfway between her and the knight. Reinhardt goes after him, hefting his hammer.

She keeps her shield up between her and her attacker, waiting for the right opening. He has his gun pointed at her, and by the flashes of light from the muzzle she can tell he is firing directly at her. He is panicked though and only one bullet impacts her shield, which glows brilliantly as it absorbs the hit. When he fumbles at his waist for a new magazine, she strikes.

Her flail strikes a glancing blow against his arm instead of his head. _Damn_. Still, it causes him to drop his ammo. The thief glances over his shoulder, sees the gargantuan knight bearing down on his remaining companion--and takes off. He abandons the fight and flees back into the forest where they emerged, giving the preoccupied Reinhardt a wide berth. She alerts her partner with a shout, and he gestures for her to give chase. 

Brigitte pursues the fleeing man doggedly. The trees are too close together for her to get a good swing at him, and in the darkness she can barely make him out. She can hear him though, crashing through the brush and speaking urgently in a language she cannot understand. Does he have a comm? Is he calling for backup? Either way, she has to stop him before he escapes!

Ahead of her a light suddenly shines amidst the gloom. A different portal springs up, red light painting the woods in bloody slashes. She can see his silhouette clearly against it, and he is close. This might be her only chance! She takes aim and rockets the end of the flail out, aiming high. She feels the hit connect, sees him tumble onto the ground. _Success!_ As she bounds up to him she jabs him in the back with the butt end of her mace, warning him to stay down and not move.

How does she turn off the portal? She doesn’t have time to search him, is certain he would fight her if she tried, which would only delay her. There is only one course of action: she raises her mace and begins to smash at the little white disk on the ground.

It’s not working. Vishkar’s tech is resistant, she’ll give them that. It has to be shielded. If only she had something sharp, she could perhaps pry into the hard-light generator at the center, disrupt the flow--

“Agh!”

Suddenly, a man materializes from the light. _Backup!_ She backs away from the portal as more people pour through, some falling over each other when those that materialize first don’t get out of the way. She raises her shield as they spot her, and they aim their weapons in return. The man on the ground shouts in another language; she doesn’t need to speak it to understand the tone.

Brigitte retreats, shield up until she’s scooted past a large tree. She ducks behind it and turns her back to the men, racing back to the clearing. She anticipates that the trees will provide for her the same cover as it did her target before. She can hear the dull _thunk_ of bullets eating into wood, the ripping sound as they tear through foliage. Once or twice she sees lasers dance on nearby tree trunks. She tucks her chin low, hoping the hard nape of her armor will protect her head.

Through the trees, she can see the hazy glow of moonlight on metal. The clearing! As she stumbles towards it something draws a line of fire on her scalp, but she presses on. Now she can see a brilliant square of light: Reinhardt’s shield. He is using it as a beacon to guide her back which is helpful, but it is also makes him an easy target for her pursuers.

“Reinhardt! Your shield!” She calls, hoping the attackers will not understand her. He drops the barrier as she approaches the treeline and she can him standing alone, a crumpled body near his feet.

As she reaches his side she bends over, panting. Running in her armor is very tiring. “They have--backup!” she gasps. “More than four! We--must retreat! I could--couldn’t get the portal down!”

“Four? Hardly a challenge!” he laughs, hefting his hammer up from the ground. He has evidently misheard her.

“No, I said--”

But just then there is shouting from the treeline. The attackers have finally spotted them. As more gunfire erupts, Reinhardt’s shield bursts back into being. She hurries behind it and readies her mace. She is scared; she doesn’t know how many there are, how many more could still be coming.

“Reinhardt!” she yells, sending her flail flying into the chest of a man who gets too close, “We _have to go!_ ”

He cannot hear her. The rattle of gunfire and the roar of his hammer as he sends a firestrike into their ranks deafens him to everything around him. Brigitte hunches close to his blind side, thinking furiously. She has to get through to him somehow!

Hot sweat runs down her forehead and into her right eye; she wipes it away, it feels sticky. 

Another firestrike topples two of the men. She still can’t count how many there are, but if she really focuses on the lasers sights she estimates there are at least ten. She takes their count down to nine by smacking the gun out of another man’s hands; by the cracking sound and his pained yell she thinks she might have broken his arm. There's no longer room for fear in her mind. They've dedicated themselves to this fight.

Reinhardt takes another one down with a firestrike aimed horizontally. Brigitte tries to corral the attackers into his hits which proves effective--in dodging her attack, another attacker blunders straight into his, and goes down. She is just beginning to feel optimistic about their chances when a flash of movement catches her eye.

Someone has flanked them! The darkness at their periphery has made her blind to him, but she can see the red dot  from the laser as he aims his gun.

Time slows. Her heartbeat rolls like thunder in her chest; booms in her ears. She pivots, bringing her shield to bear just as light flashes from the muzzle of the gun. His bullet misses and she advances on him, mace at the ready. Adrenaline fills her with lightness, quickening her steps.

Her shield glows where his bullets impact, her armor absorbing the shots that skirt the barrier.  She darts forward to bring herself into melee range. He tries to back off to a safe distance, but she swings her mace and knocks the weapon from his hands.  Heat rolls down her neck, more warmth drips into her eye. Distracted, she raises her weapon again to finish him off but he ducks, reaching for his hip. Brigitte hears a metallic ringing sound as he makes a sharp motion with his hand. When she attacks again, her flail crashes against something hard in midair.

He has some kind of telescoping baton!

Her adversary flicks the baton, trying to tangle it with the chain of her flail and pull her off balance. She reels it back in with a snap. She can’t use her mace as effectively anymore, so she goes for something he can’t block: a shield bash. She charges in with a yell, and he realizes too late what she’s doing. Brigitte hits him full-force, beating at his legs with her mace to take him to the ground. There is a tinny whistling sound in her ear just before something crashes hard into her temple. He’s managed to hit her with a wild blow as he drops.

Brigitte isn’t even aware of crying out.

Blackness blossoms across her vision; swallowing the rest of her senses. She is able to follow through on incapacitating her grounded assailant through sheer muscle memory; the motion brings her to her knees. Dizziness envelops her; every motion feels like teetering on a tightrope. She tries to fight her way back to her feet, swaying. The ground pitches and yaws; try as she might, she can’t regain her footing.

She falls, and darkness takes her.


	8. Chapter 8

Reinhardt hears his squire yell, glances over to see her charging after a man that has flanked his blind side. He keeps his shield up and edges toward her slowly so that he can cover her when she returns. Two of the attackers have moved close to each other, making a tempting target. He drops the shield for a second to throw another fire strike, managing to take one of them out.

It is almost too easy.

Then he hears a strange sound. Flashing a glance back to Brigitte, his blood runs cold when he sees it: she, fallen to her knees. Surely, she will get back up? She sways, struggling to rise and then--

\--she topples.

_Brigitte!_

He can’t scream her name, doesn’t want to attract any more attention to what has just happened. Still, he can see the change in the enemy; they have realized that there is a vulnerable target. The direction of the shots changes, the red beams of the laser sights no longer speckling his shield. He must save her!

There is only one option. He must _make_ the thieves flee.

Reinhardt drops his shield, angling himself at the closest two shooters and fires up his rocket booster. With a roar he charges in, and they, not expecting it, try to scramble out of his path. His feet tearing up the earth, he hooks one with his hammer and crushes him across the ground. The other he hits with only a glancing blow that still manages to knock the man off his feet. The gun drops in the scuffle, and when the attacker tries to recover it he brings the hammer around.

It is looking increasingly likely that he will not be able to leave this place without killing at least one of them. There are moans, screams of pain, foreign mutterings from many of the individuals that lie broken on the ground. Some lie silent. He cannot check his strength against them, because these scavengers, these _hyenas_ will sniff out weakness and press their advantage. Anger burns through him, fills him with energy. It races like fire through his veins. He _wants_ to make them hurt. Bullets ping off of him, seeking the cracks in his armor.

They will not find any.

He sends more fire strikes, driving them back. They have retreated into the treeline, hiding behind black trunks to shoot at him. The enemy has gathered here, the rest of them that still stand. So, they think they are safe there?

Reinhardt leaps with a burst of fire from his armor, swinging the hammer in an overhead arc and firing its rockets to bring it down with devastating speed. It plows into the ground with a _boom_ that reverberates through the clearing, digging deep into the earth. The force of it cracks the ground, shakes the trees wildly. He can hear surprised shouts as the men lose their footing. In a flash he is on the closest of them, bringing the hammer to bear.

Then, it is over.

Seeing him bringing down their companion, the rest of them flee into the forest. They are running full-tilt away from him, not looking back. He has done it!

He can’t savor the victory. He must get back to Brigitte! He throws a few more fire strikes at their retreating forms to spur them on, then runs to his squire where she lays. It is too dark to see much, but he can see a black substance covering her face, matting her hair. He shakes her shoulder, calls her name. Her eyes flutter open in response but she gazes unfocused back up at him. She mouths something, but no words come out.

Some of the tension in him eases; she is _alive_. But they can’t stay here, the thieves may yet return. There is no easy way to do this. She is not coherent enough to stand, so he heaves her over his shoulder along with his hammer. He finds the worn ATV path, fires up his booster and charges.

He cannot drive the ATV; his armor is too bulky to allow it. This is the best alternative to get them away quickly. It is dangerous though; it takes everything in him to follow the twists and turns of the dark path without charging right into a tree. The ground is so uneven that he has to constantly work to keep his toes up, lest his sabatonsdig in and trip him. Tree limbs batter at his shoulders and helmet; he tries to protect Brigitte from them as best he can though she is shifting in his grip, struggling and disoriented.

At last he clears the forest, erupting into the yard behind Andreas’s house. Cutting off the boost, he stumbles to a halt and tries to decide what to do.The lights are off; the man must be asleep. What is the best course of action? He needs to see how badly she is injured. He needs to get her help. Should he demand to be let in? Call an ambulance?

No. Even if he got her to a hospital, he could not explain this situation; there would be an investigation; questions he can’t answer. In any case he trusts only one doctor to take care of her properly, but she is hundreds of miles away. He has fallen out of contact with Angela since Overwatch disbanded, but with the recall, there is a chance…

Reinhardt sits his squire down against the van and tells her not to move, hoping she can at least follow instructions. He reaches into the vehicle and fetches his comm. Unfortunately his armor-clad fingers are too large to work the buttons. Cursing, he strips out of his armor in record time, abandoning it in the back of the van in a pile. He taps the comm, calling Winston’s line as he crouches by Brigitte.

As the line rings, he uses the light from the vehicle’s interior to examine her.

Blood mats her hair, leaves a sticky trail across her face, clumps in the hollow of her right eye. Her face is swollen, her eyes fluttering slits. In the absence of any bandages he rips his shirt off and presses it to her head where he thinks the bleeding is coming from. Has she been shot?

“Hello? Reinhardt?” Winston’s bleary voice comes through the comm, startling him.

“Winston!” He has never been so glad to hear that voice. “Brigitte has been hurt. I need assistance!”

“I--what?” The scientist is startled by the urgency of his tone and the subject of conversation. “She’s hurt? Wh-How?”

“I will explain it all later!” It would take too long to explain now anyway. “I think she has been shot. Can you send help?”

“I, uh, I think so? I mean--” Reinhardt can almost hear the moment Winston’s brain clicks into gear. “Yes, I can. Where are you?” The knight gives the address, though he cannot give the exact coordinates. In the background there is the rapid-fire click of keys. “I’ll have Athena pinpoint your location. Give me a minute and I’ll see what I can do.” With that, the other end of the comm goes silent.

Reinhardt clips the comm to his shirt and waits. With his hand now free, he presses two fingers to Brigitte’s throat, feeling for her pulse. Does her heart always beat that quickly? Is her skin usually that cool? He can feel damp warmth through the shirt he has pressed to her head.

“Reinhar’?” Brigitte slurs up at him, drifting into awareness. “Whass goin’ on?” Her brow knits in confusion. “R’you naked?”

He ignores her confusion, and aborts her movements when she tries to reach up toward her head. “Relax, _Shildlein_. Tell me what hurts.”

“Head.” She rasps, eyes fluttering closed again. “M’thirsty.”

He doesn’t want to remove the pressure from her head, but there is bottled water in the van within easy reach. He fetches it and trickles it slowly into her mouth. Much of it spills down her lips, into her armor. He changes his approach, tipping her chin up slightly and giving it by capfuls instead. It works, and she is able to swallow some. “Good girl.” He encourages.

The comm crackles to life.

“Reinhardt? Athena has a lock on your position. Is there open ground near you?” Winston asks. In the background the smooth, feminine voice of the computer program murmurs something he cannot hear. The knight thinks: yes, there is; the road leading to Andreas’s house has a field opposite to it. He tells the scientist this, who then queries “Could you move to it? We’ll track your location there. I’m setting up a team to come pick you guys up. Athena is trying Dr. Ziegler’s line now.”

“Affirmative, we will head there immediately!” Buoyed with fresh determination now that he has been given a course of action, Reinhardt lifts Brigitte into the passenger’s side of the van. He cannot drive and keep the pressure on her head, so he opts for the next best thing; he ties his shirt tightly around her head, knotting it under her chin like a bonnet. Then he clambers into the driver’s seat, sliding it back as far as it will go.

It has been awhile since he has been behind the wheel. Brigitte has taken to driving them everywhere; she does not trust his depth perception. Now there is no other option. He flicks on the lights and surges down the long driveway, taking turns perhaps a little too quickly. In a few minutes they are there at the junction in the road, overlooking the field.

“I am here!” He barks into the comm, awaiting his next order. 

“Okay, we’ve got your coordinates. The team will be en-route to you in fifteen minutes.” Winston replies, still typing furiously. “Hang tight Reinhardt, they should be there within an hour and a half.”

They. Who is _they?_ He asks, and the scientist pauses in his clattering. “I’ve sent Tracer and a new recruit, Lúcio Correia dos Santos. Goes by Lúcio. Mercy is gathering her things together and then she’ll be meeting you here at the Watchpoint.” So, they’re being taken to Gibraltar. It makes sense, as it is currently the only active Overwatch base. Still, it’s an awfully long way. He can’t afford to be choosy about it though.

“Thank you, Winston.” He answers and hangs up his comm. He turns on the overhead lights so he watch Brigitte again, but she flinches as they come on.

“Hurts.” She croaks, and he dims one of the lights to give her some relief. She looks _bad_. Now he can see clearly the blood encrusting her face, swelling distorting her cheek. There is a shine of wetness on her forehead where fresh blood still oozes, and he pulls another shirt from his bag to pack onto it. There is so much blood.

Brigitte drifts in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently at times. Reinhardt has never felt more powerless; he can do nothing for her. He has no medicine to give, and nothing beyond the most rudimentary of medical kits. Tightness suffuses his chest, dark fear like a hand pressing down on his heart. _You were not there when she needed you._

Eventually she stops responding to him, even when he calls her name, touches her face. He leaves the driver’s seat and hangs through the passenger door over her, fingers pressed to her neck. He feels the strong pulse of her heart fluttering there, hears the whistle of air through her dry lips. She is still alive. She is strong, she _will_ be okay.

Still, he counts every breath.


	9. Chapter 9

_Thwack-thwack-thwack._

In the distance Reinhardt hears the chop of helicopter blades approaching. He leans across Brigitte to start the van and flip on the high-beams; the field opposite them is flooded with light.

The sound grows louder and louder, until out of the dark descends a black chopper. If he’s not mistaken, it’s one of the old strike helicopters. He pulls Brigitte into his arms and approaches, squinting his eyes against the rush of wind from the spinning blades. As they cycle down he sees a familiar figure hop out of the cockpit.

“Cheers big guy!” Lena shouts over the thrumming over the rotor as it spins down. “The cavalry’s here!” He can see her expression falter as she catches sight of him and Brigitte. Concern, surprise, perhaps fear? He himself has never been more glad to see her; for a moment, the tightness in his chest eases.

The door to the helicopter’s cabin slides open and someone he doesn’t recognize slips out. It is a young man with thick dreadlocks tied back into a ponytail, wearing some kind of armor on his legs that glows yellow along it’s joints. This must be Lúcio.

Lúcio flashes a wave at him as he approaches, his expression grim as he takes in Reinhardt’s cargo. “Hey man, I’m Lúcio. Here to help any way I can.” Somehow, his name sounds familiar. As he nears Reinhardt the knight can feel... _something_ coming from him. Like a vibration. Lena and Lúcio crowd around him, offering their help to carry Brigitte but he refuses.

“C’mere, we got a bed set up inside.” Lúcio waves him to the open cabin and Reinhardt ducks his head to avoid the spinning rotor blades. He lifts Brigitte onto the gurney as Lúcio climbs back inside.

“Do you need to take care of that?” Lena asks, pointing at the van which is still pouring light into the field. Reinhardt eyes it for a moment; he _does_ , but there is no way he isn’t leaving with them now. The best option is to leave it parked alongside the driveway.

“Give me a moment to move it out of the road!” He tells her, and she nods, climbing back into the cockpit.

He races back to the van and moves it back alongside the trees as closely as he can, then cuts the engine. As an afterthought he grabs their duffel bags and their holopads; it is probable that Brigitte will want a change of clothes when she wakes up. He slams the door to the cabin closed and grabs one of the wireless headsets hanging from a peg and slides it over his ears. Next to him Lúcio slides his back on.

“Alright, loves! Hold on tight, we’re taking off!” Lena's voice crackles in his ears as the thrum of the helicopter's engines turns into a roar, and they leave the ground. Reinhardt is thankful they have her for a pilot. With a surge of speed she plots their course towards the Rock of Gibraltar.

Lúcio is looking Brigitte over, pulling ineffectually at her armor.

“Uh, can you give me a hand here?” Lúcio's voice comes over the comm, even and somewhat amused. He motions to Reinhardt, tapping at her chest plate. “We need to get her out of this armor, and I have _no_ idea how you guys get into it.” Reinhardt obliges, unlocking the hidden fasteners and removing it piece by piece until Brigitte lays in only her underlayer. Lúcio peels back the t-shirt tied to her head, examining the wound.

“Ooh, that looks gnarly.” He remarks, combing gently through her matted hair with his fingers. He clicks on a penlight and peers more closely at her scalp. His prodding causes Brigitte to stir for the first time in nearly half an hour.

She tries to sit up, face pulled into a grimace. Reinhardt crouches over her, holding her down gently. It hurts, to see her like this, but he is glad she is conscious. She tosses her head fitfully. He can't hear the words coming from her mouth but he can read her lips: “Head..feel sick.”

“She says she feels sick!” He tells Lúcio, searching for something to cover her ears. Surely the loudness of the helicopter isn't making her head hurt less.

“I got something that might help.” Lúcio says, fiddling with something on his strange armor. The yellow light on it glows brighter, and the vibration coming from the man overwhelms even the motion of the chopper. Now he feels something--a warm swell of sensation from that vibration. It seems to sink into his very bones, soothing the pains that have begun to set in and taking the raw edge off of his nerves. It feels a little like being hit with a Caucadeus beam.

“What is that?” He wonders aloud, wadding up some clothing and tucking it against her ears as protection. One of her hands tries to investigate what he is doing and he captures it in his own.

“Oh, this?” Lúcio gestures at his glowing armor. “This is my crossfade suit. Tech invented by my father, it projects a biotic field via sound waves. Pretty cool, huh?” He digs into a bag hung on the wall of the helicopter. “I don’t think it can do much for a head wound like that, but every little bit helps, right?” The medic pulls out several plastic-packaged items, things that Reinhardt recognizes. He has seen them in Angela’s medbay before.  

He watches Lúcio hang a bag of fluids from a hook on the ceiling, fiddling with the tubing until liquid drips from the end of it. He pinches it off and tucks it at the head of the bed.

“So, I’m gonna try and start an IV on her.” Lúcio extends Brigitte’s free arm, pressing the ditch of her elbow. “I’m not, like, a nurse or anything, but I can at least do this much.” He seems to find what he’s looking for and loops a blue band tightly around her upper arm. She winces, squeezing Reinhardt’s hand. “This much blood loss?” Lúcio continues, talking around a plastic-capped needle in his mouth as he swabs her arm with an alcohol pad, “I’m thinkin’ she can use a little fluids.” He uncaps the needle with his teeth, lines it up with a plump vein that Reinhardt can see bulging.

He can’t watch what happens next. He _hates_ needles! Instead he rubs Brigitte’s hand to distract her as the medic counts aloud: “Alright girl, little pinch in one, two, three--”

His squire handles it better than he would have. She only whimpers a little as the needle pierces her, and when Reinhardt looks next Lúcio has the tubing attached to a catheter running into her vein, sticking it down with some tape.

“Well, it’s not pretty but it’s runnin’ good!” Lúcio remarks happily, wiping up a few drops of spilled blood. “She handled that like a champ!”

“Thank you, Lúcio.” Reinhardt says, finally feeling at ease enough to take a seat.

The medic perches himself at the head of the bed, back to investigating Brigitte’s head wound.

“Man, this thing is still bleeding!” He clucks disapprovingly. Into the bag he goes again, pulling out plastic packages of gauze. “I know head wounds are supposed to bleed a lot, but I had no idea it could be like this!” _That_ is not particularly reassuring, and when he sees Reinhardt’s expression he backpedals. “Oh, sorry--that sounded bad. What I mean is, I don’t think there’s much I can do for it here. She needs, like, actual stitches. I’m just gonna try to wrap it better.” He sets to it.

When Lúcio is finished, out comes the penlight again. “You're not going to like this much either, but I gotta do it.” He murmurs, peeling back Brigitte's eyelids with two fingers. He shines the beam into one eye, then another as she whines in discomfort. Reinhardt has to use both hands to stop her from pushing the medic away. “Okay, okay, I'm done. I'll leave you alone now.”

He takes a seat at Reinhardt’s side.

“Well, I'm not a doctor but I _think_ her brain's okay.” He starts conversationally, twirling the penlight. “ I know her pupils are the same size and they reacted to the light, so that's good.” He sighs. “ Wish I could do more, but I don't really have much medical training.”

Reinhardt nods at Lúcio, one of his hands still cradling Brigitte's. “You are doing fine, Lúcio. _Danke.”_ Certainly the man has done more than he himself could have. And with the healing aura that the man is emitting he is certain she will be safe until she’s delivered into Angela’s care.

“So, how did you come by your medical skills?” Reinhardt nods towards the hanging fluids. The flight may be some time yet, and learning about this new recruit will keep his mind from darker thoughts.

Lúcio leans forward in his chair, angling his body towards Reinhardt. “I grew up in the _favelas_ in Rio de Janeiro. Don’t know if you know much about them, but medical care isn’t the greatest. Actually--” He scratches his head, laughing a little, “-- _nothing’s_ that great in those neighborhoods, but they were my home. My people. We took care of each other. Sometimes that meant doing a little home medical care.”

 _Rio de Janeiro. Lúcio Correia de Santos_. Something is ringing a bell. “Hang on…” Reinhardt finally puts the pieces together. “You are the Renegade of Rio?”

“They still call me that?” Lúcio sounds delighted. “Yeah, I guess!”

Reinhardt can remember distinctly seeing something in the news about it; an uprising in Brazil. There had been several conflicting articles on the subject; some vilifying the man for preventing the renovation of the slums of Rio de Janeiro, others praising him as a revolutionary, a champion for the voiceless. Mostly he remembers Brigitte wondering excitedly if he would ever tour in Europe--he must be some kind of musician, then.

“And you are...a singer?” He guesses.

“Haaah--not all that great at singing, actually.” Lúcio waves his hand dismissively at the notion. “I’m a DJ. Made the track that’s playing right now, actually! Not that you can actually hear it in here.” He points to his speaker-capped dreadlocks, where the vibrations are coming from. “I played on the streets growing up, nothin’ too crazy. Wasn’t until after we pushed Vishkar out that my stuff really took off!”

“I am impressed!” Reinhardt exclaims, because he genuinely is. He has never had much musical talent, and admires those that do. Geniuses like Hasselhoff.

“Aww, you’re making me blush!” Lúcio rubs his neck, embarrassed. “I mean, I am so _honored_ that you all invited me to be a part of Overwatch. This is like, the _world stage!_ I never thought I’d get to stand with legends like you and Trace--I mean, Lena!”

 _Flatterer_. Reinhardt nudges the medic in the shoulder, almost knocking him out of the seat. He likes Lúcio already. He and the medic sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, Reinhardt trying to see if he can decipher the sort of music Lúcio is playing through the vibrations that hum through his body, and absentmindedly stroking Brigitte’s hand. Lúcio keeps himself occupied by checking Brigitte’s blood pressure and taking her heart rate every so often, marking them down on his holopad. He may not be a trained medical professional, but he sure looks like he knows what he’s doing.

 _“Alright loves, we’re about 10 minutes out from the Watchpoint now and we’ll begin our descent. Strap in if you haven’t!”_ Tracer’s voice crackles across the comm suddenly, breaking the easy mood.

Instantly Lúcio is out of his seat, securing straps that Reinhardt hadn’t noticed before across Brigitte, ensuring she remains safely in the stretcher. He must let go of her hand to piece back together her armor and strap it into another seat. She will not want to have it more damaged than it already is, after all. He and Lúcio strap themselves in last and peek through the window to watch as they begin their final descent.

In the distance he can see a circle of flashing red lights and a spotlight illuminating what previously had been a rocket launchpad; now, it is a landing pad. The sight fills him with nostalgia. It feels like he is coming home.

He takes Brigitte's hand again as they come in for the landing; he doesn't want her to be scared by the bump. She has been resting comfortably ever since Lúcio placed the IV, but he is uncertain as to whether or not that is an effect of the healing music or just her lapsing into unconsciousness again.

She will be in the best of hands soon though. They have made it here, they are safe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter today, switching to posting once a week til I build my backlog back up.

As Lena cuts the engine and the rotor powers down, Reinhardt sees movement from the base. A familiar figure lopes towards the helicopter, swinging massive arms to propel himself. It’s Winston.

Reinhardt and Lúcio slide back the door and lower the gurney out of the chopper, careful to avoid the slowing blades. As they wheel Brigitte towards Winston, the knight can see that the scientist is out of breath.

“Dr. Ziegler just arrived about ten minutes ago!” Winston says loudly over the hum of the helicopter. “I think she might still be setting up the med bay--I tried to get as much as I could ready but she had to bring a lot of equipment. Just finished moving it.”

He gestures to them to follow him, and they wheel Brigitte off the launchpad and into the base.

As they take the elevator down to the med bay Winston catches his eye. “Whenever you’re done in the med bay, we should talk about what happened tonight.” He wrinkles his nose, perturbed. “Er, this morning? Whichever. You can wait til morning if you want. If you feel like doing an official report on it you can log in at a console. Everyone’s profiles are back up, just set up a password or your fingerprint and you should be good to go.” The elevator pings at ground level, and they exit.

Lena and Winston fall back behind Reinhardt, talking now in tones too low to be heard. Undoubtedly she is giving him her impression of what has happened, though there will not be much to tell. He cares little. Right now they are coming up on the med bay, and he can see light spilling from its doorway. As the gurney rolls up, a familiar face peers out from the doorway.

“Reinhardt!” It is Angela, looking the same as she did the last time he saw her. Beautiful, glowing, not a hair out of place, even at this time of morning. She places a gentle hand on his shoulder as he and Lúcio wheel Brigitte into the med bay. “It is good to see you, though perhaps not in this setting. It has been awhile.” He enfolds her in a quick hug, returning the sentiment. Then her attention shifts to his squire.

“Could you tell me how she received these injuries?” Angela asks, applying monitoring pads to Brigitte before beginning to unwrap the bandaging Lúcio had applied.

“Well…” The question has brought him up short. He didn’t actually _see_ what had happened to her. He can only speak to the circumstances leading up to it. “I did not see. One minute she was at my side, the next she was feet away, falling to the ground.” He hastens to add the details of the night for her, the manner of weapons their attackers used, and how she had been acting since she fell. “I do not think she was hit anywhere besides her head. Her armor was intact.”

Angela slides on a pair of purple gloves and examines the bloody head wound, pressing at its edges. She opens Brigitte’s eyes, peering into them as Lúcio had done before and causing his squire to groan in pain.

“I do not think this injury penetrated bone.” She says shortly, replacing the bandaging. “But I need to run some tests to be sure.”

“Is there anything I can do to assist?” Reinhardt asks trying not to wring his hands nervously, but Angela shakes her head.

“No, I think not. I will call you when you can come visit her.”

Lúcio steps forward. “Pardon me, miss, uh--”

“Doctor Angela Ziegler.” The doctor steps forward and strips off one glove, offering a hand politely which the DJ shakes. “But you may call me Angela. And you must be Lúcio Correia de Santos; Winston informed me of your arrival.”

“Just Lúcio, actually.” He smiles at her. “Is there anything I can do? I have this crossfade suit, which--”

“Transmits a biotic field via sound waves.” The doctor finishes for him. “Yes, Winston mentioned that.” She examines him thoughtfully. “Well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have that around. Was it you who placed her IV?” Lúcio nods, and she smiles approvingly at him. “You did well. If you would like, stay and assist me?”

Reinhardt is then ushered from the room. He leaves the med bay entirely, making his way back towards the elevators. At the last second he detours to the stairwell instead; he’s not eager to talk to Winston about what has occurred tonight. The more he has thought about it, the more he thinks how colossally foolish it was that they went through with the plan in the first place. The second he had seen those E 54 automatons he should have alerted Overwatch. Instead he had been overconfident, and because of that…

He rests for a minute on the first floor landing. Winston will have to do with a typed report. His thoughts are too chaotic, fractured; he needs to write things down, to see them so they can be put into order  Most importantly, he needs to do it now, before the painful edges of the memories can be smoothed by his constant reflections on what he _should_ have done.

He makes his way down the hall that leads past the mess hall and kitchen. The barracks are on the ground floor as well, but set away from the medbay and require a different stairwell to reach. Winston had said everything was being reinstated, did that mean his old room as well?

The barrack hallway is lit by harsh fluorescent lights that clearly illuminate the doorways to each room; they bear plaques inscribed with each agent’s initials. He finds his in the same place it has always been; the second from the last room on the right, next to one “J.M”. The ghost of old pain drifts through him at the sight, and he drags a thumb over the dusty plate before opening his door.

Overwatch keeps its barracks neatly utilitarian. The only thing that sets his room apart from the others is that the bed is an extra-long full instead of a twin; the only concession made for his height. The bed can be lofted so that there is room beneath for a mini fridge or personal effects; on the north wall there is a plastisteel desk and chair with a computer console and lamp. The opposing wall houses a door that leads to a small bathroom outfitted with shower, toilet and sink.

Reinhardt boots the console up and sinks into his chair. Weariness is settling in now like a concrete and his eyes itch and burn with exhaustion. He has been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and his nerves are frayed from the last three of them. If he is to remain alert for much longer he will need a stimulant.

“Welcome, user. Please enter your credentials.” Athena’s smooth voice announces.

It has been years since he has used this login, but he still remembers it.

 

USER ID: WILHERE

PASSWORD: CuRRY1/\1ur$t!

 

“Welcome, Agent Reinhardt.” The robotic voice sounds almost pleased as his home screen is revealed. A passing thought: did Athena miss them too?

Reinhardt rubs his eyes as he deliberates his course of action. He could submit an official Overwatch report detailing the night, but that involves filling out many different text boxes; something he is loathe to deal with. He could send Winston an email detailing the bare bones of what happened tonight with the promise of elaboration later. He could record an audio message of the former and send that.

He opts for none of these options and instead opens a blank document. As the cursor blinks on the white screen, his mind empties.

He must start at the beginning. There may yet be some detail he had missed before that will, under close examination, reveal to them something important. He must be _thorough_.

Reinhardt begins to type.

Nearly an hour later, a 5-page document sits on the screen, ready for sendoff. He may have been _too_ detailed at some parts, but that’s better than the alternative. He attaches the document to an email and sends it off to Winston with the suggestion that they meet to discuss everything the following evening. Then, he has another thought. He needs to tell Andreas to stay away from the clearing--first, to preserve any evidence that may be left, and second, because the thieves may still be around.

He sends off a message from his holopad, hoping that the man sees it and obeys. He adds that in all likelihood they will return in the near future to investigate, and to expect a visit. That will be one of his first recommendations to Winston later when they talk. That done, he is left with no other prospects. He feels like he is missing _something_ about the whole night that he should be realizing, but he just can’t place it. Perhaps a little sleep will help him to see things in a new light.

He uses the bathroom, has a quick shower to remove the worst of the day’s grime. He has no toiletries, but that will have to be rectified later. It is only as he is washing that he notices the dried blood beneath his fingernails.

_Red liquid wells, oozing from a deep wound._

Brigitte. How is she doing? It has been scarcely an hour and a half since he left the med bay, not nearly enough time. He must be patient.

The only clean clothes left in his duffel bag are a pair of underwear and a black undershirt, the rest lay bloodstained on the gurney with Brigitte. Another problem he will have to rectify….later.

He turns down the lights and climbs into the bunk, settling beneath the sheets with a sigh. He closes his eyes.

And can’t sleep.

Now that he’s here, the exhausted fog seems to have lifted. Yes, his body is tired; it aches and throbs from the strain of earlier that night but now his mind is wide awake. It is eager to relive the past few hours, to examine in detail every moment he might have changed.

When they received the letter. _You could have said no._

When they saw the Bastions. _What if you had called Overwatch then? They might have taken some units, but you would have had backup._

When Brigitte returned from the woods, attackers in pursuit. _You could have retreated then._

Around and around his thoughts swim; agitated fish in an undersized bowl. He won’t make those mistakes again; he will be more cautious next time. _Will there be a next time?_ Yes, there will. When he wakes in a few hours Angela will have Brigitte all patched up, and he will apologize to her for taking up that request in the first place. He will apologize, and see if he can find _semlor_ anywhere to bring as a treat.

Sleep takes him.

 

 ----------

 

Reinhardt wakes a few hours later, feeling little better.

His sleep had been fractured with vivid, disturbing dreams that he can’t quite remember. Now that he is awake though he doesn’t feel like returning to them. He looks at his watch: it is 9:47. The knight rolls out of bed, splashes some cold water on his face and tries to rub the exhaustion from his eyes.

A razor is another thing he needs to buy, he notices as his fingers rub against the prickly stubble on his cheeks. He has no other clothes here and so must slide his sweat-stiffened underlayer back on before he leaves his room. Just outside the door he is momentarily distracted; should he go to Brigitte now, or try to round up breakfast?

He opts for the latter. If she is awake, his squire will be hungry. He pads to the kitchen, meeting no one on the way. When he arrives it is empty, though there is the scent of artificial warm apple cinnamon on the air. As if someone has been heating packaged oatmeal. He roots through the cupboards and the fridge, which are sparse. He finds a gallon of low-fat milk (that will not do), a large tin of instant coffee, powdered coffee creamer,  a box of instant oatmeal packets (apple cinnamon, he had been right) and a box of protein bars. The only other food is several boxes of frozen dinners packed into the freezer. Sighing, he adds several more things to his mental shopping list and pockets one of the protein bars. He will repay whoever purchased them later. He pries open the tin and sets a fresh filter in the coffee maker.

As he sets to making the coffee, he hears footsteps coming and turns to see Lúcio shuffling into the kitchen, yawning. He is wearing the same clothes Reinhardt saw him in last, minus the crossfade suit.

“Mornin’.’” The DJ mutters, and points at the brewing coffee. “Can I have some of that?”

“Certainly.” Reinhardt pulls another styrofoam cup from the stack and hands it to the him. “Have you not been to bed yet?” He asks, gesturing at Lúcio’s attire.

“Naw, was helping Dr. Z for about two hours and then I was trying to figure out if I could rig a few portable speakers up in the patient bays. Thought it could be use-fuuhhl--” A jaw-cracking yawn interrupts his speech. “--sorry, useful. Got it all hooked up though and then I came here.”

The percolating stream of coffee begins to thin out as the coffee maker reaches the end of its water supply. Reinhardt waits for the last steaming drops to fall before hefting the pot and pouring out three cups.

“Are you sure you want coffee?” He questions as Lúcio rummages for the powdered creamer. “It will make it hard for you to sleep.”

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.” Lúcio stirs the powder into his cup, turning the coffee a muddy brown. “Not going to bed. Really messes with my brain if I sleep during the day. Cycle gets all outta wack.” He blows on the steaming liquid. “You going to the med bay?”

Reinhardt nods, gathering a cup in each hand. He thinks that Angela would appreciate the sentiment, even if she doesn’t appreciate the flavor. “I am.” He hesitates, and almost lets the words spill from his lips: _Is Brigitte okay?_ He stops himself before they do. He will not burden the young man further with questions he may not be able to answer. Dr. Ziegler will be able to tell him.

He bids Lúcio goodbye and heads for the elevators they had used the night before; he's not feeling foolish enough to manage the stairs when he has hands full of near-boiling liquid. As the elevator pings his floor, he feels a tendril of trepidation coil in his stomach; a snake threatening to strike.

The light to the med bay is on, the door open so he heads through it. Inside Angela sits at her desk, typing away on her computer. At the sight of him she stops working and takes to her feet, accepting his proffered cup with a murmur of thanks. She gestures for him to sit, and he does even though his nerves are demanding that he go see Brigitte immediately.

“You'll be wanting to know how Brigitte is.”

It's not a question, but it’s phrased in a gentle tone of quiet understanding. Reinhardt nods, not trusting himself to speak. His leg jitters nervously, almost sending his coffee slopping over the lip of the mug.

“Well, I won't lie to you. Her injuries are more extensive than I thought.” Angela's fingers cradle her warm cup, coffee untasted. “I do not believe they are life-threatening though. There are two areas of concern: first, a large laceration along the top of her scalp.” One hand traces a path from front to back along Angela’s golden-haired temple. “From the appearance I would say a bullet grazed her. I placed a few stitches and it should heal with just a scar.”

Now she places her coffee on her desk and plops back into her seat, clicking at something on the computer. She gestures for him to scoot around so he can see the monitor.

“The second injury is more serious.” She double-clicks a file, bringing up a black-and-white image that he recognizes as some sort of scan. If he remembers rightly, it shows cross-sectional slices of the human body.

“I took images of her head because she seemed disoriented. It is the best way to know how extensive unseen injuries are.” She points at the picture, traces the oval white outline. “This is the skull--” she moves her finger and taps the wrinkled greyness within it, “--and this is the brain.” She scrolls through some more, the image growing larger as they travel top-down through Brigitte's head.

“You see this?” She points at an area of darkness on the left side of the skull that indents slightly on the ghostly folds of Brigitte’s brain. “This is where blood has collected beneath the skull. It is called a subdural hematoma. And this--” Her finger slides over just slightly, pinpointing a thread of black interrupting the white contour of bone, “--is a fracture.” Angela's hands fold back around her coffee cup. “She has sustained some blunt trauma there that caused the bleeding. This may explain her disorientation.” She blows a small breath out and meets Reinhardt’s gaze. “She is lucky. The fracture will not require surgery, and I believe the bleeding has stopped. I will be watching her carefully for the next few days to ensure that she remains stable. ”

A brain injury. He had known other soldiers with such complications during the war, those that survived had often been altered forever by it. His heart hammers, remembering glazed eyes, slack faces, inarticulate moans. Would that be her fate, too? The proud squire he knows, handicapped permanently?

Angela must have seen the devastation on his face. She reaches out, presses one soft hand to his arm. “Try not to worry Reinhardt. You did the right thing, bringing her here. We will get her all patched up.” He notices she does not say _she will be fine_.

“May I see her?” His request comes out a hoarse whisper, and he takes a sip of coffee to wet his throat. It tastes bitter.

Angela slides out from behind her desk, smoothing her clothes as she stands. “Certainly. I was just about to check up on her.” She moves to intercept him before he can make his way through to the recovery bays, raising a hand. “I must warn you though, she may be a bit disoriented.”

She leads the way into the darkened room, past a curtain that has been drawn around the second bed. She slides it back enough for him to pass through, and as he does Brigitte is revealed.

She looks simultaneously better, and worse. Someone has cleaned the blood from her face, but that only serves to accentuate the dark swelling along her temple and cheek. Her eye is a puffy purple bruise. Her hair fans in a dark halo around her head, interrupted at her temple by a white bandage. Instead of her black underlayer she is clad in a pale blue gown, and he can see the IV still snaking from arm, connected to a bag that hangs at the head of the bed.

A gentle touch on his arm; he sees Angela tilt her head, indicating that he should wake Brigitte.

“ _Shildlein?_ ” He calls softly, pressing one hand on the closest part of her he can reach--her covered ankle. He squeezes it gently, thumb rubbing around protuberant bone. When she doesn't react, he raises his voice slightly, “Brigitte?” her name punctuated with another squeeze.

Brigitte's even breaths shift, interrupted by a sudden, deeper inhale. She shifts slightly in the bed as she wakes, and he releases her. She opens her eyes.

“Rein..har’?” Her voice is a rusty mumble, but it sends warm relief cascading through him. The knot of tension in his stomach eases; she recognizes him. Her left eye is nothing but a swollen slit, and it seems she is having trouble seeing him. A questing hand reaches up toward him and he moves to the side of the bed to capture it. “I’m here, Brigitte.”

Now that he is here seeing her his concern has faded, but in its wake comes guilt. He should have been more careful. What can he even say? In all their time on the road she has never sustained injuries like this. He had gotten overconfident, and she had paid the price. He can’t even find the words to express how sorry he feels. He is trying to find them when he is saved by Dr. Ziegler.

“Brigitte?” Angela comes to the other side of the bed, catching his squire’s attention. “Are you awake? How are you feeling?” Brigitte nods her head to the first question, wincing as soon as she attempts the motion.

“Head hurts.” She complains, coughing a little. “And my face.”

“I’ll see what I can do about that.” Angela assures her, “But first I need to do some quick tests. Will you look at me?”

Dr. Ziegler then runs her through a series of motions: first having Brigitte tell her how many fingers she is holding up, then following said fingers moving nothing but her eyes. Back and forth, up and down the fingers go, only to disappear inside Angela’s pocket and produce a penlight much like the one Lúcio used the night before. She peers into Brigitte’s eyes, murmuring a quiet apology as her patient’s face contorts in pain. Tucking the penlight away she asks, “What is the month and year?”

“Um...August, 2076?”

Reinhardt can’t tell if the uncertainty in Brigitte’s tone comes from her confusion about the question, or whether she really isn’t sure of the date. He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze; it feels cold.

“And, where are you?” Angela asks from the other side of the room, fiddling with a locked med station.

He wonders if she has even been told where she was brought. He certainly hadn’t; didn’t think she was lucid enough on the flight over to even know.

“A...hospital?” The answer comes, even less certain.

Dr. Ziegler returns, a small glass bottle in one hand and a syringe in the other. “Very close,” She says, drawing the fluid out of the bottle. “You’re in the Watchpoint Gibraltar med bay.” She taps a bubble of air out of the syringe and then hooks it to a port on the IV. “I’m giving you something now that should help for the pain.”

Brigitte inspects the blonde doctor as she does it, and Reinhardt thinks she can see recognition dawning on her face. “You’re...Angel?”

Angela laughs, light and amused. “Very nearly correct. I’m Dr. Angela Ziegler, but you may call me Angela.” She reaches down to shake Brigitte’s free hand. “And you are Brigitte Lindholm. I’ve heard a great deal about you from your father.”

“Papa has pictures of you.” Brigitte shakes the proffered hand weakly. “At a Halloween party.”

Another trill of bright laughter from Angela. “Ah, I remember that picture! I had no idea he still had it!”

Reinhardt remembers that picture. He does not think there is a member of the team that does _not_ have a copy of it. He still remembers it as if it were yesterday; their doctor, clad in a dark parody of her usual regalia--positively bewitching. Coaxing even the normally taciturn Torbjörn to smile for the camera had been a feat. How long ago those days seem.

His recollections are interrupted by a feeble press of fingers against his palm.

“Reinhardt...what happened?” Brigitte asks.

Across the bed he sees Angela make a small motion with her hand. She catches his eye and mouths _, ‘What do you remember?_ ’. Ah, she wants to see how badly Brigitte's memory has been affected.

“How much do you remember?” He replies.

Brigitte is silent for a moment, thinking. “We were..at the farm. The stakeout. I was..chasing someone through the woods? And there was--a teleporter.” Her brow clouds again. “I can't remember anything else.”

So she doesn't remember when she was injured. It may be for the best; surely it was traumatic.

“We fought off the rest of them,” The half-lie slips smoothly from him “And you were injured at the end of the fight. We escaped and I called for backup. Lena flew us here.”

Another spark of comprehension. “I remember being somewhere really loud. My head hurt from it, but then it started to get better. I think there was...another person?”

She remembers Lúcio too then; that must be a good sign.

“Yes! He is Overwatch's newest member--you will meet him soon I am sure.” He plans on asking the young man if he wants to visit Brigitte later. He is sure she will want to thank him. “He kept you well on the way here.”

“Oh.” Is all Brigitte says in response to that. Her gaze is becoming unfocused, her grip on his own hand more lax. “I'm hungry.”

Reinhardt wonders if Angela will allow the protein bar. He knows sometimes she prefers her patients to have nothing to eat until she is certain that they won't need surgery. He pulls the now-warm bar halfway out of his pocket, angling his body away from Brigitte. He raises his eyebrows at Angela, asking without words: _is this alright?_ She nods.

He unwraps the bar and relinquishes Brigitte's hand, placing it there. As she eats, he notes how she shifts the bar to the right side of her mouth, away from the worst of the swelling. She is making a valiant attempt at disguising it, but he can tell that each bite hurts. He makes a mental note to buy some soft food when he goes to the market today.

Once she is finished eating he can see her eyelashes fluttering with the effort of staying open. He decides this is as good to leave her be so she can get some much-needed rest. With a soft “I will come back later, Brigitte.”, he leaves the bay with Angela following behind him.

She closes the door to the patient rooms partway so they will not disturb Brigitte. “I am going to keep a close eye on her for the next few days. Regular check-ups every few hours, and I’ll run another scan on her tonight just to be sure the bleeding has stopped.” She tilts her head, blue eyes suddenly focused keenly on him. “What about _you?_ Are you well? Did you sustain any injuries in the fight?” He knows that look all too well. He thinks a mandatory physical exam will be in his near future.

“Uh, well--” He tries to come up with an answer that will keep her at bay, “I am fine. Nothing a little sleep can’t cure!” Which is mostly true. He has the usual aches and pains associated with getting older, but on top of that some bruising and blisters from where his armor has rubbed and pressed repeatedly. Not to mention the screaming muscle pain in his arms; it has been awhile since he has swung his hammer in such an unrestrained manner.

He’s not convincing enough.

“I expect to see you back here by tomorrow for a physical.” She orders and strides back to her desk. She picks up her coffee, and takes a long drink from it. “Heaven knows I’m going to have enough to do when all the agents return. It’s best I see what I have to work with, _sofort.”_

Reinhardt beats a hasty retreat from the med bay before she can launch into a lecture about the merits of routine wellness exams, nutritional counseling and proper stretching. He has missed Angela, but he’s heard enough of these lectures that he can recite them in his sleep. As he makes it back to his room, he realizes he left his coffee in the med bay.

...it’s not worth it.


	11. Chapter 11

As he gets ready to go to the supermarket, Reinhardt realizes that he still doesn’t have a change of clothes. He has forgotten to retrieve the spare shirts from wherever they’ve been stashed in the med bay, and hasn’t had time to wash his own clothes in the ensuing mess of their arrival. Adding clothing to the list, he thinks this shopping trip may become more involved than he originally planned. If he’s going to make a production of it, he might as well ask his teammates if they would like to come along.  
  
He bypasses Winston, as the scientist rarely makes public appearances. It’s no surprise as to why; he’s legendary as a member of Overwatch and it’s hard to find a disguise for a giant talking gorilla. He finds Lena and Lúcio in the rec room watching a program on the TV. When he asks, they both agree to join with surprising alacrity.  
  
“You’re going to be doing those amazing fry-ups in the morning again, aren’t you?” Lena asks excitedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I really missed those!”  
  
“Man, if someone is cooking I will gladly do dishes.” Lúcio declares.  
  
“Certainly! If there are people willing to eat, I am willing to cook!” Reinhardt laughs. It will be nice to have such fellowship again.  
  
They head to the hangar where all the vehicles are stored. In between the monstrous MV-261 Orca and now-refueled OSS-7 Aurora sits three nondescript vehicles; a truck and two vans painted a forgettable white. Lena hops into the driver's seat of the truck while Lúcio is sandwiched between her and Reinhardt, who takes the passenger’s seat.  
  
“Winston and I got this one running.” She says proudly, turning it on. “We...haven't exactly checked the others yet. Took a few tries to get this one started up, and we’ve been more concerned about making sure the aircraft are in working order.” Reinhardt isn't surprised; it has been many years since any of these vehicles have been used. It's just one more thing to add to the long list of things to do to get the Watchpoint fully functional again.  
  
The ride into town is wonderfully smooth. Though the winding back road from the Watchpoint to the main road is woefully overgrown, it matters little with the repulsors keeping them a comfortable foot and a half from the ground. There is a rusty gate that guards the exit to a side road that leads into town; the keys on the number pad are so stiff from disuse that it takes the strength of both Reinhardt's hands to loosen them.  
  
When they get into town Reinhard is disappointed to see that the local _mercado_ he so faithfully frequented no longer exists. In its place is a sprawling chain market that has virtually eaten the whole block. Unfortunate, but the store is also a hypermarket, so he won't need to make another stop for clothes.  
  
They split up as soon as they enter the store. Reinhardt takes a cart while the other two use only small baskets. They've agreed that they're less conspicuous when they're separated; Lena disguises her chronal accelerator with a hoodie while Lúcio wears his hair down and a long-sleeved shirt to hide his tattoo. Reinhardt has no disguise, but he reluctantly takes the hair tie Lúcio offers him and sweeps his hair back into a ponytail. It's paltry camouflage at best, but he finds that many people avoid the direct gaze of a man of his stature.  
  
By the time they meet in the bakery department, Reinhardt's cart is groaning under the weight of his supplies. Lúcio gapes a little at the mounds of food and drink there, but Lena only giggles. “Get enough, did ya?” She chirps as they shuffle through the self-checkout line.  
  
“Hah, this will last us barely a week!” He replies. Once the other agents arrive, they will have to look into the prospect of discrete deliveries of bulk staples.  
  
They slog through the line and drag the groceries into the car. As they start the journey home, Reinhardt tucks into a premade sandwich. With nothing but a little coffee in his system he's starving, and he has a lot of cooking to do today.  
  
“Did you two get the email Winston sent this morning?” Lena asks conversationally as they take the winding road out of the city. Lúcio nods in acknowledgement, but Reinhardt shakes his head, mouth full of food. He's been remiss in checking his inbox; he really needs to get back into that habit.  
  
“Don't worry about it.” Lena says breezily. “He just wants is to get together tonight in the briefing room, seven o'clock. Pretty sure he just wants to go over what happened last night so we're all on the same page. I have to say, I am pretty curious to hear what you two were up to!”  
  
Reinhardt frowns around his meal. He would have expected that Winston would have shared his report with them all.  
  
Lena can evidently read his mind, because she chirps, “Don't worry about telling us now. I think the big guy and Athena are working on tying up some loose ends before we talk tonight. You know how Winston can be!”  
  
Winston _is_ a scientist, first and foremost. He likes to know as much information that he can, dissect every piece of it and then formulate his own hypotheses before presenting them before everyone. He wants to make sure that he has answers, or at least educated guesses to the questions that will no doubt be posed tonight. He, like Reinhardt, is probably dissatisfied with the ambiguity of the situation, but Winston is far better at extrapolating with little data.  
  
Lúcio and Lena both help him load the fridge when they make it back; a feat that takes less time than anticipated when they snag a utility cart from the hangar. It’s fortunate that he has them, because now he must spend the next few hours cooking before the meeting.  
  
He gives Lúcio a packaged salad meant for Angela, and he and Lena spend time chopping vegetables and meat. She’s used to assisting him in the kitchen; many times they would stand here side-by-side and listen to the rolling banter of Jesse and Liao as they argued over whose turn it was to do the dishes. How long ago that seems, and yet he feels like he could turn his head and see them there now. Reinhardt gives his head a little shake, dispelling the ghosts.  
  
Right now he’s preparing chicken noodle soup for Brigitte, and some sesame chicken for the team. Easy meals that please most palates. By the time he is halfway through cooking the evening meal, the smell of sizzling meat and spices has attracted Winston as well.  
  
“Winston!” He greets the scientist with a jaunty wave of his spatula, “Good to see you out and about! Care to join us for dinner?”  
  
Winston knuckles his way into the kitchen, sniffing interestedly at the pan. “What are you making?”  
  
“Sesame chicken! Unfried, if Angela asks.” He tries to find a happy medium for all their teammates.  
  
“Hmm..” Winston hums thoughtfully, shifting out of the way as Lena brings over a cutting board full of chopped broccoli.  
  
“If it is not to your taste, I think there is something in the cupboard that might strike your fancy.” Reinhardt knows that in the past the scientist has preferred to take his meals alone. Perhaps these isolated years at the Watchpoint have changed him though.  
  
Winston opens the largest cabinet and grunts in surprise. “Peanut butter? Chunky and smooth? Thank you Reinhardt!”  
  
“ Aaand honey-infused…” Lena sing-songs, trying to entice the scientist into staying. Reinhardt hears Winston blow out an amused breath.  
  
“Maybe later. I still have a few things to run by Athena before the meeting tonight. See you all there!” He leaves the jar of peanut butter on the shelf, though behind his back Lena mouths he'll be back.  
  
The dinner is done by four, three whole hours before the meeting. It's a bit early for a meal, but Lúcio insists that food is best served hot and fresh, so the three of them sit down together to eat.  
  
“Man…” Lúcio swoons over his first mouthful. “I stand by what I said. I will do dishes forever as long as you keep cooking!” Next to him Lena nods her agreement. True to his word, the young man merrily washes their dinnerware and scrubs the pots and pans while Lena dries them.  
  
After packing up the leftovers, Reinhardt ladles up a large bowl of soup and some thinly-sliced bread to take to Brigitte. He is sure that she must be hungry; she's had nothing but that protein bar for almost a day. When he gets to the med bay he walks in to find Dr. Ziegler’s desk empty. The remains of a salad are stacked neatly there, evidence that she has been there recently. When he goes into the bay of patient beds he finds her there, waiting just outside the restroom.  
  
“Oh, how thoughtful!” She exclaims at the sight of his laden tray. “Just put it on that table. Brigitte will be out in a moment.”  
  
He sets the food on the overbed table, arranging it neatly as he waits. He feels slightly awkward; he isn’t sure Brigitte will want him here to see her traipsing to and from the bathroom. Before he can make up his mind to stay or go however, Angela raps gently on the closed door.  
  
“Are you doing alright in there, Brigitte?” She calls softly, ear pressed against the wood. Reinhardt can’t hear a reply, but evidently she can. She cracks the door slightly peering in. “Do you need any help getting out here?”  
  
“No...I think I’m okay.” The sound of Brigitte’s voice--still weaker than he would like yet firm--fills him with warmth. The bathroom door creaks open and his squire shuffles out slowly, Angela hovering just behind her.  
  
He can see why. Her gait is unsteady, her arms held out to aid in her balance. Surely the head injury has messed with her sense of equilibrium. His first instinct is to rush forward and hold her under the arms, as if she were a child learning to walk. He resists it though, as he would definitely end up with an elbow in his gut. She is fiercely independent; a Lindholm . So instead he walks forward and offers his arm; a gentlemanly gesture. She has the choice to accept his help, or refuse.  
  
After a moment’s pause, she loops her own arm through his, leaning on him more heavily than he anticipated; more evidence that this injury has sapped her strength prodigiously. The guilt nibbles at him again, its teeth have grown sharper. He helps her settle back into her bed, raising the head of it upright so she can eat.    
  
“Did you make this?” Brigitte asks, blowing gingerly on a steaming spoonful.  
  
“Of course!” He exclaims, then, more conspiratorially, “No one else on this rock knows how to--its a wonder they survived all these years.”  
  
She laughs, which turns into a sort of pained half-cough. “Oh, ow. Hurts to smile.” She eats a couple spoonfuls of soup, before remarking thoughtfully, “Actually, it hurts to do anything. But, try not to make me laugh for a few days, okay?” He can tell by the light in her eyes that she is at least partially joking. But he vows to not bring more pain upon her, swearing it to her dramatically with his hand over his heart.  
  
By the time she finishes her food she looks sleepy again. “Why am I so tired?” She mutters grumpily, stifling a yawn. “I’ve been sleeping all day!”  
  
Angela bustles over, another syringe of medication in her hand.  
  
“Your body is healing itself, which requires a lot of energy.” She says, emptying the syringe into the IV line. “I suspect you may be quite tired for a few days.” She lowers the head of the bed back down and dims the lights in the bay. “Get some more rest. I will wake you in a few hours to do another scan.”  
  
As Reinhardt gathers up the dishes to go, he feels a gentle tugging on his pant leg.  
  
“You haven't told my dad about this, have you?” Brigitte asks sleepily.  
  
Oh. That was something he hadn't even considered. Why had he not thought of it until now? He should have informed his friend immediately!  
  
“No, not yet. I can call him after this though, if you wish.” He says.  
  
“Don't.” Her voice is insistent, a little urgent. “Please, don't tell him.”  
  
She doesn't want him to know?  
  
“Why is that?” He asks, confused. She’s Torbjörn’s daughter--wouldn’t she want to know if it were he who were injured?  
  
“Ugh, because he'll just get all worked up about it.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “He likes to worry, if you didn’t already know.”  
  
He does know. Torbjörn is legendary for many things, one of them being his pragmatic, if  somewhat pessimistic viewpoints. While this was useful during the war for keeping Overwatch one step ahead of the omnics, the flip side was that he tended to worry over things, turning them mentally over and over, searching for flaws in a way that occasionally tended towards obsessive. Torbjörn knew as well as he did some of the outcomes of people with head wounds like Brigitte's; he would undoubtedly worry over her and anticipate the worst.  
  
“I will let you be the one to tell him.” He acquiesces, and her expression relaxes.  
  
“Thanks, Reinhardt. I'll tell him when he gets here, or whenever my face looks less messed up. Whichever comes first.” She yawns widely, nestling back into her covers. “Visit me tomorrow?”  
  
He reaches for her hand, which relinquishes its grip on her blankets. As he holds it, he notices how long her fingers are. They used to be so small; now their hands fit well together. When did that happen?  
  
“Count on it, _Shildlein_ .”

 

\-----

 

The visit has taken him to two hours before the meeting, and he is in desperate need of a shower. When he sees himself in the bathroom mirror he grimaces at how haggard and unkempt he looks. He rubs a hand across his cheek, feeling the rasp of stubble. Well, his newly-purchased razor will take care of that soon.  
  
Stepping into the hot shower, he can feel his muscles practically sigh in relief. The water pressure is blissfully strong here, and the pounding spray is nearly as good as a massage on his aching body. He takes a few minutes to bask in the sensation as the tension bleeds from him, before he sets to work.   
  
By the time he's done, he feels like a new man. Groomed, clean and warm he feels like he could retire to bed now and sleep for twelve hours straight, but he has only an hour and a half before the meeting.   
  
Well, just an hour of rest wouldn't hurt, would it?   
  
He sets an alarm on his holopad for thirty minutes before the meeting and retires to his bunk. Sleep is instantaneous, and deep; pure unconsciousness. He drifts for what feels like no time at all, before--   
  
“Reminder: Meeting in the briefing room at 7, it is 6:50 now.” Athena's voice, cool and feminine rings out from his computer, slicing through the haze of sleep. Did he turn off his alarm without even knowing?   
  
“Thank you, Athena.” He groans, rolling out of bed. The nap has done nothing except remind him how deep his exhaustion runs. Hopefully this discussion can be wrapped up quickly. He departs his room at a brisk walk.   
  
At seven o'clock on the dot they've all gathered in the briefing room except for Angela who joins them via holo-call. Understandably the doctor doesn’t want to leave her sleeping patient.   
  
Winston pulls up his holopad and clears his throat.   
  
“Uh, good evening everyone. Just a little housekeeping before we get to the main topic. As you're aware, I have given agents on the outside another 2 weeks before they return to active duty. Athena and I have been recruiting since the recall, and you've already met our newest member, Lúcio.” He gestures to the DJ who gives a little bow in his seat. “He arrived, uh, a little earlier than I expected, but we're very glad to have him.” Winston taps his pad, as though crossing something off the list.   
  
“Agents McCree and Tracer have already re-entered active duty. McCree is currently in America taking care of some personal business. While he's there I've asked him to look in on a few things.” Reinhardt waits for Winston to clarify, but he doesn't. “Tracer and I investigated some questionable activity around the Gallery last week and managed to foil a plot by Talon. It appears they were after Doomfist's gauntlet.”   
  
He is calling that housekeeping?!   
  
“An attack by Talon?” Reinhardt can't stop himself from exclaiming, “ _Why_ am I only hearing of it now?”   
  
“That is rather important.” Angela pipes up, frowning.   
  
“Well, uh,--” Winston gulps, looking flustered. “It was only a rumor. We didn't have much time to act. And besides, they didn't manage to take anything!”   
  
Reinhardt appeals to Lena. “Who did you fight? When did they strike? If Talon is making moves--”   
  
She reaches out to him, patting him reassuringly on the arm. “Relax, big guy.  Athena picked up on chatter about more activity than usual surrounding the Gallery, and we went to check it out. No harm done.” She gestures to Winston. “Besides, he punched the living daylights out of the Reaper. And we moved the gauntlet to a more secure location.”   
  
“Whose idea it was to keep that powerful artifact in a public museum, I do not know.” Reinhardt shakes his head. This is all happening too quickly. An attack on the Watchpoint prompting the recall, then an attack on the Gallery and the theft at Andreas's farm by an unknown organization? Something is brewing.   
  
“Uh...anyway,” Winston continues hesitantly, “Most of the recalled agents are expected to check in within the next two weeks. At that time we’ll discuss plans to reactivate old bases.”   
  
Winston puts down the holopad and folds his hands on the table. “Finally, we’re here tonight to discuss the incident from yesterday. Reinhardt?”   
  
Reinhardt launches into his tale, starts from the beginning, including the letter and the little background he knows of Andreas and his forbidden hoard. When he gets to the part about the teleporter, Lúcio perks up.   
  
“I did not see it myself, but Brigitte said they had a teleporter somewhere back in the forest, which is how they arrived. They were transporting the omnics through a second teleporter to an unknown location.”   
  
“That has to be Vishkar.” Lúcio hisses the name like a curse.   
  
“What would the Vishkar Corporation want with old war machines?” Lena asks, confused.   
  
“It's too early to speculate.” Winston interrupts the burgeoning discussion. “Was there anything else, Reinhardt?”   
  
Reinhardt thinks back, trying to see if there is anything that had jumped out to him. At last, he shakes his head. “No. After we drove them away I called you. Once we arrived here I told Andreas to not go back there until we came and gave the all clear--there is still a chance that they've left some clue behind.”   
  
Unfortunately they've lost a whole day. Any evidence that remains could be being swept away by someone as they speak. Evidently Winston has the same thought.   
  
“I think we need to go out there and do some investigating. That kind of organized thievery makes me think that someone much bigger could be pulling the strings.” The scientist crosses his arms and rubs his chin, thinking. “I’ve had Athena run some background on Andreas Mayer; after your correspondence I thought we might be able to dig into his background but she didn’t find much. Not even evidence that he had a child. What did he say his son's name was?”   
  
“He didn't.” And Reinhardt hadn't thought to ask. “I will send him a message; hopefully he will respond.”   
  
“If he doesn't, then I guess you have your answer as to whether or not this was some kind of setup.” Lena remarks, and Reinhardt nods in agreement.   
  
“Does anyone else have something to add?” Winston asks when silence falls around the table. They look around, but no one else seems to have much to say.   
  
“Okay then. Tomorrow morning I want to send you three-” He points a thick finger at Lena, Lúcio and Reinhardt, “--back to the site. Just look for anything you think is suspicious. Take pictures if you can, and upload them to Athena. If you even think things are about to get dangerous, abort the mission and come back.”   
  
“What do you want us to do with the omnics, if they are there?” Reinhardt asks. This is probably the most important part of the mission to him; moving them to a secure location, or destroying them.   
  
“Bring one back, if you can. The rest you can scrap. It's too dangerous to leave them lying around when we know people are after them.” Winston picks up his holopad and taps another thing off his list.   
  
“Right. Before we end, I just want to say something.” He clears his throat, straightening up in his seat.   
  
“Thank you everyone, for being so quick to answer my call. I know that you all have lives and family outside of Overwatch and it must be difficult to leave that behind, especially now. We’re not exactly welcomed by the public anymore but we’re going to be needed, and soon.” He takes a quick glance at his pad. “I know you must have been watching the news; there’s unrest stirring in Russia. They’ve had a lot of omnic attacks, and the death toll is rising. I’ve had contact with soldiers in the Russian Defense Forces; not everyone has been willing to talk but I have one who has been honest with me about how conditions are there. We need to be ready to intervene, even though it’s likely we won’t receive a warm welcome when we do.” He sighs slightly and pushes up his glasses. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is: there’s a lot of work that needs to be done, and we’ll have to do it quickly. But there’s no other group of people I’d rather be with taking this on with, and I think, uh, that we’ll be very--very successful.” With the end of his speech, he sets his pad down on the table and shifts in his seat, seeming slightly discomfited.   
  
“Aww, thanks big guy. We're glad to be back!” Lena leaves her chair to give Winston in a hug, while the rest of them murmur their approval. Her arms neatly encircle his head, and he reaches around to pat her shoulder.   
  
It is good to be back, though he wishes the circumstances had been slightly different. Leaving the briefing room fills him with bittersweet nostalgia. How much changes, yet stays the same.   
  
Winston's no Jack Morrison, but he thinks in time he could be close.   
  
When he retires to his room that night his mind is full again. Worries about Brigitte have finally taken a backseat to something else: thoughts about the situation in Russia. Is there any link to Talon’s activities and the trouble brewing there? He had of course seen the news; the re-activation of the omnium had been big news, and while hypotheses abounded as to the reasons behind it, up til now the reason hadn’t mattered. What they did know was that Russia had cranked up production of their Svyatogors in response, and that the battle raged on. It was sad, really. News of deaths in Russia didn’t even make the front page anymore; the media everywhere stated that Russia had the situation well in hand, though Reinhardt had privately thought differently. There had been no outcry for aid though, and he had plenty of requests to keep him busy in the eastern part of the country for the last while. He should’ve looked into it more.   
  
Well, that was the past. Perhaps Winston would give him the contact info for their informant in Russia; he would surely like to know firsthand what they had witnessed. When Torbjörn finally arrived he would sit down with him and Brigitte, and together they could discuss these things. Those two more than any other agents would be able to understand the capabilities of the Russian’s Svyatogors.   
  
He takes a deep breath as he lays in bed, feeling the ache of exhaustion in his bones, the pull of sleep like quicksand slowing his mind. He was still getting too far ahead of himself. There was much to be done before they could intervene in Russia. The other agents had to arrive, they had to run drills, practice missions, tune up their equipment, revamp their communications…Brigitte had to heal…   
  
Sleep cocoons him, obliterating all thought.

 


	12. Chapter 12

When Brigitte awakes, she is immediately aware of two things. First, that she is quite hungry. Second, she  _ really _ has to pee. 

As she opens her eyes she spots a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of water on her overbed desk.  _ Ah,  _ so that hadn't been a dream after all. She has a vague memory of Reinhardt visiting her, carrying the bowl. He had apologized for coming so early, but he had to leave for the day to return to Andreas's farm, and…

The rest is too hazy to remember. He must have left, and she, still feeling so tired, must have fallen back asleep. Exhaustion had won out for once over hunger. And now, the urge to toilet is going to win out over it too.

She sits up slowly in bed, feeling vaguely like her head has been stuffed full of cotton and beaten like a pinata. Every thought seems to take a long time to register, and every movement seems to happen at half-speed. Looking around she can see no sign of Dr. Ziegler, and for that she is thankful. The good doctor has been very accommodating, but Brigitte hates feeling helpless.

She's needed Angela's assistance to make it to the bathroom every time yesterday; the dizziness that sweeps over her with each movement made it difficult to totter to the bathroom without something to hold on to. She is determined to do it alone today. 

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, perching there momentarily to brace for a wave of vertigo, but it doesn't come. That's an improvement. She stands up slowly, holding onto the overbed table until she's firmly on two legs. Scooping up her IV bag, she takes slow, halting steps towards the bathroom, wheeling the table with her in case the dizziness comes. She’s sure nothing would irritate Dr. Ziegler more than having her patient fall and crack her head again in less than 48 hours. 

Getting to the bathroom is a rousing success. It’s so much easier to get around than yesterday, and she can almost forget about the head injury (minus the throbbing of the bruises) --until she turns on the bathroom lights. It feels like someone has slid two needles into her eyes, and she recoils from it, clapping a hand over her face. 

“Ow!” She had forgotten how bruised she is.

Gradually the pain fades and she does her business, thankful for the rails on the walls as she gets up. When she goes to wash her hands, she catches sight of herself in the mirror for the first time since the fight. 

She looks terrible. 

Objectively Brigitte knows that someone who sustained such traumatic head injuries probably wouldn’t wake up a day later looking flawless, but she just looks so...grotesque. She’s had bruises before, some quite dark but never on her  _ face _ . 

She lifts one hand up to pat gingerly at the thunderous purple swelling creeping from her hairline all the way to her left eye and brow. The flesh beneath it is even darker, almost black.  _ So  _ that’s _ why they call it a black eye.  _ The swollen is contained mostly to the left side of her face, which gives her a chipmunk-cheeked appearance on that side. She didn’t even know it was possible for her temple to be swollen that way--perhaps she can get Dr. Zeigler to give her some ice for it. Relieving some of that pressure might make it a little less painful to eat, after all.

Brigitte parts her hair, looking curiously at the silver gleam of the row of staples running front to back there. She thinks she has the faintest memory of those being placed; a blur of white as Dr. Ziegler leaned over her, and a strange tugging sensation on her head. She’s had stitches before and those weren’t too bad, kind of like plucking a hair to have them removed. Somehow she feels these might be a little more painful to get out later. Thankfully they can be masked by rearranging her hair slightly, though the area around it is still quite tender and her hair is gritty with blood in some places. Ugh, she needs a shower. 

First though, her belly is growling with hunger. 

She shuffles back to bed, tugging the table and pulls the now-cold bowl of oatmeal towards her. Hot or not, it’s terribly tasty, and easy on her sore face to eat. She shovels it in as fast as her wounds will allow, and as she’s scraping the bottom of the bowl for the last dregs Dr. Ziegler walks in.

“How are you feeling today, Brigitte?” She asks, eyeing her alert patient. 

“Better than yesterday. My head hurts a little less.” Brigitte answers, and takes a moment to take stock of the rest of her body. “Still feel a little weak, but not nearly as tired or dizzy.” 

“That is good!” Angela urges, and taps something on her holopad. “The scan from last night shows no new bleeding, which I’m glad to see.” She shows Brigitte the screen of her pad, with two side-by-side images. “In fact, it looks like your body is already starting to clear away the clot. Quite unusual to see such quick healing. Normally patients who sustain these types of wounds remain in a critical state for several days, but I think  _ that _ might have something to do with it.” She points at the black speaker nestled next to the bed that pulses with an easy beat. 

Brigitte can’t remember how that got there, but she does notice how each time she returned from the bathroom she felt better in the presence of the music.

At her questioning look, Angela explains, “Healing technology from Lúcio, transmitted through music. Quite impressive, actually; I believe it has expedited your rate of healing prodigiously. And speaking of healing technology, I do have something I wish to speak to you about.” The doctor settles herself on the side of the bed, pulling a small glass bottle out of her pocket as she does so. She holds the bottle up to Brigitte’s eyes, as if showing her the liquid inside.

“I have something I would like to administer to you, to help your brain recover from any damage that may linger. It’s fairly new technology, but one I think that shows much promise. I like to inform all my patients of the risks and benefits of this before I administer it though.” She swirls the bottle, and Brigitte watches the clear liquid inside slosh back and forth. 

“Okay?” Brigitte acknowledges, waiting for an explanation.

“In this vial are  _ nanites _ . Also known as nano-robots, they are very small robots that have been engineered for medical purposes. Simply put, these robots are meant to enter your bloodstream, go to the brain and aid your body in breaking down abnormally-clumped proteins that could cause damage.” 

Tiny medical robots? Brigitte has heard of nanotechnology, sure, but mainly when it comes to its use in electronics. She has no idea that they used them in the medical field as well. She looks again at the vial, which still appears to hold nothing but clear fluid. The robots are far too small for her to see, but if she concentrates hard enough she thinks that fluid in the vial might be just  _ barely _ be more opaque than the glass itself. 

It’s a weird thought, putting hundreds, possibly thousands of tiny robots in her brain. 

“Are there any, uh...really bad things that could happen if I do?” She asks, hesitantly, still eyeing the bottle. 

“There are risks with any treatment--but for nano-robots in particular, the risks so far are quite theoretical. It is possible, for instance that the robots could malfunction and target the wrong protein, or build instead of break down. However there have been no...recorded instances of this occurring.” Brigitte thinks she might hear the slightest hesitation in Dr. Ziegler’s voice, but she can’t be sure. So far the doctor has seemed only too happy to explain part of Brigitte’s treatment, care and prognosis to her. She can tell that Angela has her best interest at heart, but she has to ask the next question.

“So, what would happen if I didn’t get...them? Injected.” She points at the bottle.  _ Are robots a them? An it? _

“In all likelihood, not much.” Dr. Ziegler folds her hands in her lap, the bottle still held in her fingers. “In the past, people who sustained repeated brain injuries had debilitating symptoms and outcomes, often many years after the fact. It is certainly possible that only  _ one  _ instance of brain damage could cause these issues down the road, which I would like to avoid if possible. It is your choice though, of course.” 

Choices; sometimes Brigitte hates them. She’s not the sort of person who likes to deliberate for a long time over what to do, especially when it comes to things she doesn’t really understand. She prefers to trust her instincts, which more often than not have proved to be right. She takes the leap.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” 

“Excellent. I’ll have you sign here, if you would.” Dr. Ziegler pulls her holopad out of her pocket, turning on the screen and passing it to Brigitte. “This is just a waiver saying I’ve informed you of the possible risks and benefits of the procedure. Being that I’m injecting you with an ‘active agent’, it’s considered a surgical procedure, which means I need your consent to do it.”

Brigitte skims the waiver, then signs the pad. As soon as she passes it back, Dr. Ziegler pulls a syringe out of her pocket and uncaps the needle on it, sinking it into the bottle. 

“Wait--are you doing that now?” Brigitte asks, a little startled. She had expected that it would be soon, but for some reason she had thought it might be...well, not  _ right that second. _

“Yes, the sooner I can administer them the sooner they can begin to work. It’s best to treat the brain before too much of the protein can build up and cause damage.  _ That _ they cannot fix: damage already done.” She pushes the air trapped at the tip of the syringe out, then connects it to Brigitte’s IV. “Besides; don’t worry. These nanites are non-replicating; once they’ve done their job they will become inactive and eliminated naturally by your body.” 

As she pushes the liquid in, Brigitte expects to feel...well,  _ something. _ A weird metallic taste, a smell, a sensation--but there is nothing.

“Now, would you like this out?” Dr. Ziegler gestures to Brigitte’s IV. 

Would she  _ ever _ . “Yes, please!” She tries not to sound too eager, but her enthusiasm definitely shines through. It’s been irritating, not able to bend her arm without that painful reminder. 

Dr. Ziegler removes the cannula from her arm and gives Brigitte a cotton ball to hold over the small puncture wound. She disposes of the tubing, then comes back to the bed. 

“Now, I still want to keep you here for one or two more days for observation. That should be enough time to see if you’re going to have any adverse effects. I know it’s terribly boring, but is there anything else I can do for you?” Angela asks, kindly.

“Um...am I okay to take a shower?” Brigitte replies, pulling at her hospital gown. “I kinda stink.”

“Certainly. Just give me a moment to get it ready. You’re still experiencing some dizziness, yes?” 

Brigitte see-saws her hand;  _ sort if? _

“Okay, I’ll put something in the shower in case you need a seat.” 

When at last Angela gives her the all-clear, Brigitte makes it to the shower to find that the doctor has placed a plastic chair in the shower, laid out towels and even stacked a pair of what looks like Brigitte’s own clothes on the toilet. She’s really quite thoughtful, and the metalsmith appreciates her consideration when halfway through the shower she gets so dizzy that she has to sit down. She spends the rest of the shower sitting, gingerly washing her hair and trying to avoid disturbing her stitches. By the time she’s done and dry, even that light exertion has her feeling exhausted and a little nauseous. Her headache has returned as well.

Grumbling to herself about how stupid her body is, she shuffles back to her bed and sees Angela has changed the sheets and added a fresh blanket. Maybe she really  _ is _ an angel.

As Brigitte settles herself back in bed, Dr. Ziegler approaches with two tubes of cream in her hands. 

“Before you sleep, let me just put some of this on.” The doctor holds up the first tube, and squirts a little of the white cream onto her gloved fingers. “This will help the bruising to heal more quickly.” The other tube is antibiotic ointment that she applies to Brigitte’s head, sealing it in with a strip of some clear bandaging. She leaves the tubes on the overbed table and then turns down the lights.

“How long am I going to be feeling so... _ blah? _ ” Brigitte complains to her, pulling the covers up over her arms. She  _ hates _ feeling so weak. 

“You’ve just suffered a pretty traumatic injury.” Angela replies, pausing in her actions of closing the curtain around the bed. “I would give it at least a week before you start feeling mostly yourself again.” When Brigitte gives a dramatic groan in reply, Dr. Ziegler laughs, a light tinkling sound. “You remind me a lot of Reinhardt. He isn’t content to sit still either! But-” She points a finger at Brigitte, “--rest is the body’s way of healing itself. So, take it easy for a few more days. I promise you’ll feel better soon!”

With that she leaves Brigitte to her nap, the echoing click of her shoes fading out of the med bay. Reluctantly, Brigitte closes her eyes and falls asleep.

\---

She doesn’t know how long she’s been asleep before she’s woken up by the sound of heavy footsteps in the room. There’s a squeaky metallic sound of the curtain being drawn back slightly, and then a voice.

“Brigitte?” Her name comes out softly, hushed. Still, it is unmistakable.

“Reinhardt?” She yawns sleepily, and rubs the sleep out of her eyes.  _ Ow _ . Right, she has bruising. She used the bed’s remote to sit herself up as Reinhardt pushes past the curtain, bearing a bowl full of steaming soup and some more bread. It’s already dinner time? She looks for a clock and finds one on the opposite wall: 5:47?! She’s slept almost seven hours, and right through lunch! As if on cue, she catches a tantalizing whiff of savory chicken and her stomach rumbles. 

“Angela said you slept through lunch. Are you feeling alright?” Reinhardt asks as he sets her food on the overbed table and slides it close to her.

“Yeah. Just really tired for some reason.” She mumbles, tying her hair back in a loose ponytail so none of it ends up in her food. “You’re back from the..mission?” She tries to remember what he had told her this morning. “Andreas’s farm? Did you find anything?”

Reinhardt takes a seat on the end of her bed as she tucks into her soup, heaving a sigh. He rubs a hand over his face, looking troubled. 

“Yes...we went back today. But no. Unfortunately by the time we arrived, the remaining omnics had been taken.” He leans back on his arms, making the bed creak. “We searched the woods for evidence of their escape route--I think we even found where they originally placed the teleporter, but nothing else. They removed the bodies, the weapons, the omnics, even most of the bullet casings. Whoever they are, they know how to clear a crime scene.” 

Brigitte dips a chunk of bread in her soup broth and pops the soaked morsel in her mouth. “Talon, you think?” God, she hopes not.

Reinhardt shrugs. “It is hard to say. The style of this operation is not quite like them. They send in small teams of elite agents and they are after high-profile targets; important figures and powerful weaponry. I cannot think what they would want these omnics for.” His tone darkens. “They attacked the Overwatch Gallery last week, seeking Doomfist's gauntlet. If we attribute this thievery to them as well, I do not like what it implies.” 

Brigitte waits to see if he will continue. When he doesn't, she prompts, “Which is?” 

He blows out a breath, running one hand through his hair. “I do not even want to say it.” And he doesn't.

Brigitte thinks she might understand what he means. Reinhardt is not a superstitious man, but even he sometimes thinks that stating the worse case scenario practically invites it.

They sit in silence until Brigitte finishes her meal and pushes the overbed table away. She can tell from his posture that he’s waiting for something. She has a guess as to what that might be.

“Brigitte…” Reinhardt’s voice is soft, laced with regret and shame. “I am sorry that I let this happen to you. I should never have taken on that mission--your instincts were right. I should have trusted you.” He turns towards her, his face solemn. “It was my fault that you were hurt. I know I cannot expect this from you, but I want you to know that you have my sincerest apology, and I hope in time you can forgive me for putting you in--”

_ Oh boy. _ She knows where this is going.

If there’s one thing she knows about Reinhardt, it’s that he is  _ great _ at guilting himself. She saw it in Eichenwalde, when he stood over his old master’s remains. He had told her the story of what happened those long years ago, how his overconfidence had lead to the loss of the great General of the Crusaders, and how he had been tasked to go to Overwatch in Balderich von Adler’s stead. She could see it in his face, hear it in his voice--that tide of guilt, vast and old as the tide still pulls at him. Now it has been turned to  _ her _ . She needed to stop this now, before it drowns him.

Slipping one leg out from under the covers, she kicks Reinhardt square in the side, hard enough to jolt him. His shock cuts off his apology, and before he can do anything more than stare in stunned surprise at her, she leaps from the bed, seizes the front of his shirt and then pushes him flat onto his back. Pinning him in place with the weight of her body, she glares down at him. She wants to show him that she’s still strong, still able to fight.

“Enough of this, Reinhardt!” She scowls, sticking a finger in his face. “I don’t want to hear another word!  _ I _ am your squire.  _ I  _ knew what I was signing up for when I asked to join you, and  _ I _ accepted the risks! It’s not  _ your _ fault that some thug surprised me, it’s mine!” He’s opening his mouth to argue, so she slaps a hand over it. He blows an affronted breath through his nose, but doesn’t speak. 

She continues. “Listen. I should have been paying attention. I made a mistake. I had  _ many _ opportunities to do things differently, but I didn’t. You would have listened to me if I had really objected to the mission, I  _ know _ you would have. Okay? This is no more your fault than it is mine.” Some of the fire leaves her, gentling her tone. “You can’t protect everyone, you know that. So quit beating yourself up about it. I’m fine-” Okay, well, the fatigue settling into her bones and the throbbing of her head beg to differ, “--or, I will be. No lasting damage.”  _ Probably. _

She takes her hand away from his mouth now that she’s had her say, but she can’t resist adding one last thing. “Buuuuut, if you really feel  _ so bad _ about what happened to me, I will forgive you under one condition.” She leans in close, feels the warmth radiating off him as she whispers the next words into his ear.  

“Bring me a dozen  _ semlor _ .”

She leans back, giving him enough room to sit up as she smirks in a self-satisfied manner. She’s managed to shake him out of his guilty torpor, she can see by his still-stunned expression. As she slips off him and back into bed he sits up fully, brushing his hair out of his eyes. 

“ _ Shildlein _ …” He starts, and then falters as if he can’t think of exactly what to say. He doesn’t  _ need  _ to say anything though. She reaches out to him, nudging him gently in the shoulder. 

“Reinhardt, really. Believe me when I say I don’t blame you for any of this.” She gestures to her bruised face and lacerated scalp. “And I’m going to be okay. So please, don’t beat yourself up about it.” She says the words softly, willing him to hear the truth of it. 

“I...I know that you do not blame me.” He says, finally. 

“And I don’t want  _ you _ to blame yourself.” She insists, noting his careful phrasing. He’ll beat himself up forever if she doesn’t make him see sense. 

“I--I do not--” He starts, but cannot finish. The words come haltingly; struggling fish on the end of a line. Somehow he can’t admit to himself that he is not to blame, she can sense it.

“C’mon, Reinhardt.” She cajoles, “You aren’t responsible for my choices!” 

This seems to stir Reinhardt into articulation. “I am responsible for  _ you! _ ” 

“What?” She responds automatically, startled. “No you’re not!” 

“You are my squire.” He continues, “I am your knight--your teacher! I am supposed to keep you  _ safe! _ What could I have said to your parents, if you had been--been gravely wounded? Or killed?” The words pour out of him now. All the fears she didn’t even realize he was harboring are spilling out of him like poison. “I couldn’t do anything to help you. You were bleeding, and all I could do was--was nothing.”

The tension in his voice thrums, alive with bewildered hurt. “I could do nothing.”

He slumps forward, elbows resting on his knees as he grips his temples. Her heart aches for him, for she knows at least part of what he’s feeling. She’s felt it herself; helplessness in the face of his injuries, uncertainty at what she should do, fury at those who inflicted them. Reinhardt’s been wounded enough that she’s learned to manage these feelings by now, and she thought in light of his history he would have too, but…

She gets out of bed and goes to him, tugging at his arms to urge him to get to his feet. When he does, she wraps her arms around his waist and rests the least-injured side of her face against his chest. His arms come around her, holding her at first in a loose embrace before tightening almost painfully. Touch is good. Especially when he had been injured, she had indulged in frequent contact to remind herself that he was alive. Nothing was quite as reassuring as the warm sensation of his living, breathing body. Perhaps she could provide some of that comfort now.

They stand there for an indeterminable amount of time; feeding off the quiet comfort of the other’s presence. Through his chest she can feel the proud beating of his heart, a mantra.  _ Alive. Alive. Alive.  _ Gradually his grip slackens into something more easy, less desperate. 

“I cannot lose you.” Reinhardt admits. His voice is soft, flayed raw with emotion.

She tilts her head back to look up at him, gazing into that pale blue eye. “You won’t.” 

They stand like that for another few heartbeats, before he breaks the embrace. She sits back into bed, pulling the covers up around her. She’s quite sleepy now, even after a day full of nothing more strenuous than a shower and that weak pin she managed on Reinhardt. 

“Believe me yet?” She asks, breaking the fragile bubble of remaining tension. If he doesn’t, she doesn’t know what she can say that will make him.

He gathers up their dishes, stacking them neatly before he answers. “I do.” 

She is pleased to hear that there is no hesitation in his voice this time. It means he really does believe it. Hopefully letting go if this guilt will do him some good.

“Good. See you tomorrow?” She says hopefully as he turns off the room light.

“Of course,  _ Shildlein. _ ”

The gentle clink of the dishes fades into the distance as she curls comfortably into her pillow, feeling strangely at peace. 


	13. Chapter 13

Brigitte wakes the next morning to the faint chiming of the alarm on her holopad. She groans at the interruption--she had been having a nice dream--but rolls gingerly out of bed. Her goal today is to leave the medbay and join the others for breakfast; not a lofty goal by any means, but ambitious comparative to the last few days. It seems that she’s finally well enough to start feeling restless. She’s never done well at staying still.

She stretches as she stands, feeling the pleasurable lengthening of her awakening muscles in counterpoint to the gentle throb of her face as she yawns and compresses her bruise.

Getting to and from the bathroom is far easier than it was yesterday. It feels like some of her strength is coming back, and the dizziness is only apparent when she moves too quickly. The light still hurts her eyes some, but that might just be her adjusting to its fluorescent dazzle when she snaps on the bathrooms’ overhead light. In its harsh glare she looks herself over and is pleased to see that she looks improved.

The color is back in her cheeks and her eyes are no longer bloodshot. Even the bruising on her face is lighter, turning a greenish-yellow around the edges...which actually looks kinda gross.  _Oh well._

Brigitte throws her hair up into a loose ponytail to disguise its unkempt appearance (which causes some interesting tugging on her staples) and then walks out of the medbay. As she passes the bed closest to the door she sees the curtain drawn, and the faintest glimpse of what might be blonde hair in the dim lighting. _Well, even doctors need their sleep._

Passing through the door she feels a twinge of guilt. She _should_ alert Dr. Ziegler that she's leaving but she’s afraid that if she does, she _won’t_ be able to leave, and she’s not willing to risk that possibility.   _Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission._ She’ll bring back some breakfast for Angela as an apology for sneaking out.

It occurs to her as she leaves the med bay that she doesn’t actually know where the mess hall is. The whole of her familiarity with Watchpoint Gibraltar consists of the rooms she has just left. _Are there signs in this place?_ Looking around she can see that to the right is a dead end, so she takes a left to find an elevator and a set of stairs.

Taking the stairs seems like an exercise in foolishness, so the elevator it is--there’s only a ground floor and a first floor which simplifies things even more. She’ll either wander around until she finds what she’s looking for or she finds some _one_.

Exiting the elevator, she goes with her instinct and turns right when presented with the choice. Down the hall she goes, until she finds that the hall branches off into three long corridors with numerous doors. Maybe these are the living quarters? If so, Reinhardt is down one of these halls. She's not sure she wants to look for him yet--he’ll probably be as bad as Angela if he spots her wandering here--so she turns around and heads back the way she came. Down past the elevator she finds the mess hall and a spacious kitchen, both currently empty.

She checks her watch--its 6:41. She had set her alarm according to the time she knows Reinhardt usually starts breakfast when they are at the castle, which is 7:00. So she still has some time to explore if she wants it.

Irritatingly, just her short foray has left her feeling tired. She opts to stay in the mess hall and wait, pulling up the news on her holopad to pass the time. Even more annoyingly, she discovers that looking at the pad for more than five minutes sparks the dull throb of a headache right behind her eyes. She could put on a video, but she wants to be able to hear people approaching. Letting out a sigh, she drops her chin on her palm and looks around.

The mess hall seems a lot bigger now that she’s actually in it. The domed ceiling is high, considering it’s been hewn from the rock. The roughness of its surface gives it a dappled appearance in the sunlight, and she thinks if she were closer she could see the very tool marks that shaped it. The few windows that run along the south wall let in bright beams of morning sun, casting the whole room in a warm glow.

Several rows of long plastisteel tables, including the one she's sitting at decorate the place, with a few smaller circular tables around the edges. The setup reminds her a lot of her primary school cafeteria; the only thing missing are the stainless steel serving counters. The kitchen is industrial-sized with an impressive set of fridges, kitchen ranges and a wide sink. She can see why Reinhardt would like cooking here.

Brigitte tries to imagine the place full of people, all together and cooking, training, laughing. The lifeblood of this place, pumping through each nook and cranny, heating this cold rock from within.

It's all empty now, nothing to keep the inherent chill of the earth at bay. She shivers a little as the creeping cold starts to get to her. Where can she find a jacket?

She’s thinking of going to search for one when she hears the dull thud of footfalls. The cavernous room and long, empty halls amplify each sound such that she expects to see someone long before she actually does--not that she doesn’t know who it is from the instant she hears his steps. Reinhardt comes into the mess hall, looks, then does a double take when he sees her sitting there.

“ _Shildlein?_ ”

“Morning!” She waves two fingers at him, nonchalant. _Nothing to see here._ “What's for breakfast?”

“You were cleared to leave the med bay?” Reinhardt asks, coming over to where she sits.

“Ummm, well, not _exactly_.” Brigitte drags out the answer, reluctant. She doesn't want to lie to him but she also doesn't want him to freak out when he learns the truth.

“Where is Angela?” He frowns down at her slightly, looking around as though he expects the blonde-haired doctor to materialize out of thin air.

“She's sleeping.” Brigitte raises a hand to stop him when it appears he is going to fetch her. “No, wait! Don't. I’m fine, really!” She stands up, intending to perform a little pirouette-- _see, completely okay_ \--but as she does a wave of vertigo hits and she has to hold on to the table to regain her balance.

“Brigitte…” Reinhardt starts, disapproving. “You should be resting. Come, I’ll walk you back down.” He offers his arm to her as though he’s going to promenade her through the halls.

She doesn’t take it.

“C’mon Reinhardt, I’ve been cooped up there for days! I just wanted a little change of scenery.” She complains, trying to sidestep him and go into the kitchen.

“ _Shildlein_ , you were badly injured not even four days ago!” He chides her, placing both hands gently on her shoulders and barring her path. “What is it that you are always telling me, hmm? You need to rest so you can heal, or else you may make the injuries worse!”

She’s never been on this side of the argument before. Countless times she had tended Reinhardt through his injuries, bandaged his wounds while they were on the road, even sewn him up a time or two. Getting him to take it easy when he was unwell was like trying to stop a boulder from rolling downhill. She recognized the sensibility of what he was saying, but now that she understood how vexing it was to stay in put all the time she couldn’t help but try to fight the restrictions.

“Please Reinhardt? Just let me stay for breakfast and then I promise I'll go back for the rest of the day.” She pulls out the puppy-eyes, an admittedly underhanded trick. She hasn't used this sort of tactic since she was little, begging her father to stay up late or for an extra sweet but more often than not it was effective. Only her mother had remained unswayed.

Reinhardt is not her mother though. He heaves a great sigh and lets his hands slip from her shoulders. “I will take your word on this.”

He turns to the kitchen and begins pulling out breakfast supplies. Brigitte trails behind.

“Want any help?” She asks, leaning on a counter. He turns to give her a stern look.

“You should be sitting if you are going to remain up here. Go sit at the table, I will bring your food once I am done.”

She sulks back to her seat, and behind her back she can hear him muttering that Angela would never forgive him if she fell.

From her seat she can watch his broad back moving back and forth as he dices, whisks and fries. Soon the scent of searing onions, peppers and garlic fills the air, a heady, robust aroma she can almost chew. She wasn't all that hungry when she first came up, but by the time Reinhardt brings her a steaming plateful of scrambled eggs she is ravenous. He takes the seat opposite to hers and together they eat in comfortable silence until the sound of approaching footsteps distracts her from her next bite.

It's Lena. Upon seeing the two of them she hurriedly makes herself a plate and takes the seat next to Brigitte.

“Morning, you two!" She pipes cheerily, spreading a napkin over her lap. “Didn't expect to see you out and about so soon, luv! I'm Lena Oxton--or Tracer, whichever you prefer.” She reaches her hand across the table to shake Brigitte's.

“I'm Brigitte Lindholm, Reinhardt's squire.” Brigitte introduces herself, squeezing Lena's smaller hand a little awkwardly. It feels weird to be introduced like this since she's sure they both know _exactly_ who the other is. Evidently Lena has the same thought

“I know. Reinhardt's mentioned you a time or two!” Lena smiles, her eyes bright as though she's holding back laughter at what Brigitte takes as her understatement. “And Torbjörn, for that matter.”

Brigitte isn't quite sure what to say about that. Papa had spoken about her? She supposes that isn't _too_ surprising; surely the Overwatch agents talk about their lives outside of the organization. She tries to imagine her father showing holopics of her and her siblings as toddlers and relating all their embarrassing antics and holds back a shudder. Lena sees the expression on her face and actually does laugh this time.

“Nothing bad, I promise!” She asserts, and points her fork at Reinhardt. “He'll tell you, it was all good things!”

“Yes, all good.” Reinhardt states, his tone knowing. “Mostly remarking about how very like your father you are. Stubborn!”

This devolves into good-natured banter throughout the rest of the meal, and by the time they're finished eating one more person shows up. A young man with dreadlocks swept back in a thick ponytail bounces his way into the mess hall, sees them all gathered there and hustles over.

“Good _morning_ everybody!” He crows, stopping in front of the table, hands on his hips. “You all are looking _great_ today, I must say.” He fixes his attention on Brigitte, sticking one hand out to shake. “I’m Lúcio. Lúcio Correia dos Santos, if you want to be specific, but only _minha mãe_ calls me that.” Lúcio smiles a grin as brilliant as the electric green of the frog slippers he wears. His hand is warm and dry, his grip firm. She likes him already.

“I'm Brigitte,” she responds, returning the smile. “That's your speaker in my room in the med bay, right? Super useful, I think I'd be a lot worse off now if I hadn't had that around the last few days.” He looks a bit surprised that she knows what it is, so she elaborates. “Reinhardt told me about your Crossfade tech.”

“Oh, yeah. Pretty wicked, huh? Glad it’s coming in handy!” He holds up a finger. “Lemme grab a plate, then we can continue this conversation.”

When Lúcio sits back down he is pretty distracted by his food, so the other three talk more generally about lighter subjects; Brigitte has questions about what it's like living on the Rock of Gibraltar, what the defensive capabilities of the watch point are like, and the best places to eat in the nearby town. She really should message her father soon, first to let him know that she's already here and second to ask him the more technical questions the others can't answer. If she could start working on getting this place secure it would make her feel useful.

Once Lúcio finishes eating, Brigitte asks what has brought him to Overwatch. She had known about the recall, but hadn’t realized Winston had been actively scouting out new members. She had kind of assumed that _she_ would be the first of the new blood.

Lúcio tells them about how he shouted out to Overwatch on his social media page. Turns out he has quite the following, being both a musical icon and a revolutionary. His words had gained traction, ultimately attracting Winston’s notice when Athena combed the net for mentions of the organization. Winston had reached out to the DJ, who had immediately accepted and set out the next day.

“I guess I didn't really know what I was getting into,” he confesses “but Overwatch was so _legendary_ back in the day when it came to making big changes in the world-- I just want to be a part of it! I know we are going to do something great!” The others nod, Brigitte perhaps a little less enthusiastically than them. Her head is starting to ache somewhat, and the exhaustion has come creeping back.

Reinhardt must be able to tell, because he tells her that he thinks is time she be getting back to the med bay. She nods tired acquiescence and gets up from the table, swatting at his hovering hands. He means well, but she’s not an invalid. She can handle a little dizziness.

“It was nice talking to you!” She tells the two agents and she and Reinhardt depart. They have almost made it to the elevator when Brigitte remembers one last request.

“Can I look outside? Just for a minute?” Brigitte asks.

Reinhardt crosses his arms, prepared to lecture her but she interrupts him. “Please? Pleasepleaseplease _please_ , and I’ll stay in bed the rest of today and tomorrow!”  She promises, hoping he doesn’t look down so he can’t see her crossing her toes. He pauses just long enough for the doors to the elevator to slide closed before grudgingly muttering a ‘this way’.

They have to go to take a different route to get outside, and the way he goes leads to yet another stairwell. This one lacks any elevator though, and he takes one look at the incline before sweeping her unceremoniously off her feet and ascending the steps himself.

“C’mon Reinhardt I can walk!” She grumbles, looping an arm around his neck so she can at least get some leverage and pushing against his chest with her free hand.

“I’m not going to risk it.” He replies. She’ll be darned if next time he gets injured she won’t insist that she cart him around in a wheelchair after this treatment!

The door at the top of the stairs is rimmed in light, and the air smells distinctly different.  Reinhardt pushes the door open with the small of his back, and then they are _outside._

Brigitte gets a view of the ocean, vast and blue and sparkling like a diamond an instant before pain sinks like hot needles into both of her eyes. The switch from the shaded interior of the Watchpoint to the full brilliance of the morning sun is too much for her poor brain. She closes them against the intrusion, shielding her face from the light. Even with them closed her eyes feel strange, like the muscles that move them have all rusted.

Then she feels the wind, cool and brisk against her skin. It's distracting enough that she can forget her eyes for a moment. The breeze stirs her hair-- a weird sensation with the staples. Then, the smell--briny and crisp--it reminds her of the oceanfront summer holidays with her family when she was young.

Brigitte really wants to get a good look at the place, so she cracks her eyes open again and tries peering through a slit in her fingers. She has only a general impression of wide expanses of stone, a curving road and the squat shapes of other buildings. Where the gray road ends there is the fresh green of new grass, and beyond that is the sea. It stretches endlessly into the distance, becoming a flat, blue line in the horizon. Looking down she can see the ripple of the waves, reflecting the light like a million shards of glass; too much brilliance to take . She has to close her eyes again, this time going so far as to press her face into Reinhardt’s chest .

“ _Shildlein?_ ” She can feel the rumble of his voice as much as she can hear it.

“S’a bit too bright for me.” She admits, disappointed. She really had hoped to look around a little more, hadn’t expected this much sensitivity. Brigitte wonders if anyone has some spare sunglasses she can borrow the next time she comes out.

“Alright then, back to the med bay.” Reinhardt carries her back down the stairs, only letting her go halfway down the hall when she’s protested enough. They stop for a minute when Brigitte remembers that she was going to bring Angela breakfast, and Reinhardt carries it until they emerge into the med bay.

Dr. Ziegler looks up from her desk. “I was wondering when you would be coming back.” She says neutrally. She doesn’t look _disappointed_ per say, which is hopefully a good sign.

“Yeah, um... sorry for leaving this morning.” Brigitte apologizes as Reinhardt places the plate and cutlery before Angela. “I just was feeling _really_ cooped up. I hope I didn’t worry you.”

“Well, you are still wearing your monitors.” Dr. Ziegler says, neatly unfolding a napkin onto her lap. “If you had removed them, well, I would have come looking for you.” She pauses before bringing her first forkful of egg to her mouth. “In future, I should like to be notified if you feel the need to discharge yourself.” Her tone is stern, but not harsh; a mother gently reprimanding her child.

Her neutral expression melts into one of slight amusement. “Fortunately, I am used to... _difficult_ patients.”

Brigitte thinks she might have made eye contact with Reinhardt on that last part, and conceals a smirk of her own. She agrees to Angela’s wishes, feeling somewhat chastened.

“Are you feeling any pain?” Angela asks as Brigitte slinks back to her bed.

“I do have a bit of a headache,” Brigitte admits. “I uh, took a little detour outside and it was really bright. Feels a little better now that I’m inside though”

Angela taps something on her holopad. “Your readings are still stable, so I am inclined to think that you simply overexerted yourself. Alert me if you feel them worsening though.”

Brigitte returns gratefully to her dim section of the med bay and crawls into bed. Here in the darkness, surrounded by the low hum of Lúcio’s music she already feels much better, though still tired. She hopes that particular symptom will disappear soon, she hates being so sedentary.

“Come and visit me later?” She asks Reinhardt, who has followed her to the curtain at her bedside. “Bring Lena or Lúcio if you want. Bring _anyone_ , actually. It gets boring here after awhile.”

He snorts a laugh, and promises that he will. It seems like she is asleep before his footsteps have even faded from earshot.

 

\---

 

True to his word, Reinhardt returns at lunchtime bringing both a tray of food and their two teammates. It's an interesting spectacle, seeing three people crowded around her bed, using pilfered overbed tables as makeshift lunch tables, but its a welcome change. Dr. Ziegler even joins them once she sees the small crowd at the bedside. After everyone leaves Angela wants her to undergo another physical exam; first to check her neurological status, next a general exam “for her records”.

“I may have to do this again in a few months. You may be experiencing some strength loss and issues with coordination until your brain has completely healed.” She states when she asks Brigitte to touch her toes, and the young woman almost tips over.

One thorough exam later, Brigitte has more time in which to kill. It really sucks that she promised Reinhardt she would stay here, because there's still nothing to _do_. She settles on composing a message to her father, using the voice-to-text function when the strain on her eyes is too much.

In it she asks him for a breakdown of the offensive and defensive capabilities of Watchpoint Gibraltar, the specs of the turrets he has in place here, and for permission to get everything up and running until he gets here. She doesn't think he will refuse; he's learned to trust her with his tech and appreciate her own creations. Perhaps she can pick his brain for the best use of some of her work here--she adds that in a postscript to her message, and sends it off.

Well, that has killed _maybe_ 20 minutes. What else does she need to do?

Brigitte tries to put her mind to the immediate future. Once she’s recovered a little more she’s going to need to be ready to run drills with the team, right? That’s one thing she’s heard Lena and Reinhardt talk about starting up soon. She needs to recover her armor, and finish the shield she has prototyped. To do that, she needs her tools and her workshop. Does her father have a workshop here? She should have asked him that. Maybe she can send a follow-up message...

She also needs to fix Reinhardt's armor, but she needs all the aforementioned things to do that. She needs to go to the store. Someone had procured toiletries for her, but whoever it was forgot to buy lotion or floss, and she could use a few more sets of clothes.

She makes a To-Do list and a To-Buy list, which ends up eating up lot of time. It seems like once she thinks of one thing, it spawns a whole sub-list of follow-up work or pre-work she hadn’t even considered. Some of it is stuff she’s sure her father will want to check when he arrives, but, by tackling it now she can make the process more expedient for him. Not to mention, doing these things will help her learn about this place, as she is still almost completely unfamiliar with the Watchpoint and what is required for the day-to-day running of it.

She puts down her pad with a sigh. There’s still a little time before dinner, so she kills the remaining time with a long, luxurious wash; enjoying the way the heat helps mask the ache of her injuries at least temporarily. When she leaves the bathroom she sees Reinhardt is already there with plates. This time, Lena and Lúcio are not with him.

“The other two already eat?” She asks as she finishes toweling off her hair and joining him in sitting on her bed.

“No, they are having dinner with Winston.” Reinhardt answers, passing her a napkin. “Lena is trying to get him to get used to taking meals with the team, I think.”

“Why, did he not eat with you guys before?” She spoons up mouthfuls of hot soup eagerly, alternating between it and chunks of soaked bread. Her hunger has really returned recently.

“Ehhh, not so much.” Reinhardt says.  “Even before the recall he usually dined alone.”

“Why?” Brigitte is a little curious. She had always imagined the team as a unit; training together, eating together, relaxing together. Like one big, happy family.

Reinhardt shrugs. “I believe he prefers it. Lena thinks he is simply shy.”

The eating habits of the resident scientist are not something Brigitte had ever thought she would devote much time to pondering. Far be it from her to judge anyone on how they wanted to spend their meals. It does make her think though, about Winston and how long he stayed here with no one but Athena as company. It must have been lonely.

They finish their meals and the empty dishes are stacked on the overbed table.

“What now?” Brigitte asks. “You going to go chill with the others, or go to bed?” She wishes she could join the rest of them. She is sure this place must have a nice rec room and a decent TV. Unwinding with everyone before bed is something she’s definitely doing once she’s let out of the med bay.

“No. Actually, I have something I would show you.” He picks up the dishes and heads toward the door, looking over his shoulder at her when she remains sitting on the bed.

“I thought I had to stay here the rest of the day?” She says, finally getting up.

“Permission was granted by Dr. Ziegler.” Is all Reinhardt says. He leads the way to the mess hall to unload the dishes and then takes the same path they had taken earlier that day. He’s taking her outside?

He offers his arm as they approach the steps and she takes it, fearing that if she doesn’t he will pick her up again. Ascending the stairs, she reaches ahead of him eagerly for the door and pushes it open, revealing the Gibraltarian evening in all its splendor.

The sun is halfway set, a burning red-gold disc sinking into the darkening sea. The last rays or light dance across the quivering water, bathing the waves in warm splashes of color. The sky, nearly cloudless, is fading from a burnished orange to dusky purple even as she watches.

She can hear the low roar of the ocean as it churns against the island. As she walks towards the edge of the cliffs she peers over the side, watching the waves rolling and crashing into the sharp rocks below. On the weakening updrafts seabirds wheel and glide, lighting on craggy rock faces to roost for the night. The landscape here is strikingly stark; a harsh beauty.

“Wow.” She breathes, taking it all in. It must be awesome to be stationed here in the spring and summer. “I can see why this place was good for your tan.”

Reinhardt laughs. They're standing a few feet from the cliff's edge, behind them is a wide road that snakes between several buildings out of sight. She remembers that this place had been a launch point for rockets before; this must have been the path it would take.

She takes a seat gingerly near the edge of the cliff, leaning back to enjoy the cooling breeze coming off the ocean. It feels like heaven on her face, which has started throbbing faintly in the absence of Lúcio's speaker.  

She's afraid that if she doesn't distract him soon he will drag her back inside, so she says, “So, Overwatch is going to intervene in Russia?”

“You heard that, hmm?” He says, taking a seat next to her.

“Yeah. I might have been listening in the other night.”

“ _Frech_ , _Shildlein._ ” He chides, teasing.

“You're one to talk. You're always working out when you're injured, even when I tell you not to. And no changing the subject!” She retorts, leaning over to bump her shoulder against him. “What do you think? You wanna fight omnics in Russia?”

He is silent for a moment, pondering his response. She knows how _she_ feels about it; excited, at the prospect of being able to help, nervous at the thought of facing down armored bullet-spewing monstrosities and, beneath it all, suspicious as to how the debacle at Andreas's farm might tie into it all.

“I think it will be good to go there and help. Too long has the world stood by and done nothing.” He says finally. “I wish to see with my own eyes the destruction they have caused.”

“Do you think it'll be like... _back then?_ ” She asks.

His voice is dark with remembered pain when he answers. “I hope for everyone's sake that it is not.”

They sit and watch as the sun finally dips below the horizon, the last strains of the day fading into deep red, purple and finally a bruised blue-black that blends into the rippling ocean. Somehow she had never really thought much about what it must have been like back then. Oh, her father had told her some; mostly answering her questions about the omnics and their capabilities, or their weaknesses. Both he and Reinhardt had told her the story of how his arm and eye had been lost, but only in the vaguest, kid-friendly terms. Not much more than “Reinhardt had saved Papa's life”, though to hear the story told after Reinhardt had gotten a few drinks in him was... interesting, to say the least.

It seems as though she will be finding out, sooner rather than later. Which only adds urgency to all the plans she had made earlier today; she needs to get well soon so she can be prepared for this fight.

Around them night has fallen. Reinhardt heaves himself to his feet with a grunt, and she knows her time is up. She doesn't object when he offers her a hand up, just takes it and then follows him back to the med bay. She's pleased to note that she doesn't feel dizzy at all walking around; she's getting better. She bids him goodnight and then tucks herself under the blankets, pulling up the most recent Russian news. She lays awake later than is probably wise, straining her eyes a little as she scours the deeper parts of the web, watching shaky handheld holovids from civilians and soldiers alike. _Real_ videos from the front line, nothing like what's been shown on the news.

She falls asleep still playing them, and the echoing hammer of bullets, screams of pain and fury follow her into her dreams.


	14. Chapter 14

When Brigitte is awoken the next morning it's to see Dr. Ziegler waiting at the foot of her bed. She has good news; she's releasing Brigitte from the med bay today. Evidently Brigitte has shown enough improvement that the good doctor no longer fears a sudden relapse of her symptoms. Angela clears her to light duty only, with a sworn promise from Brigitte that she won't do any heavy lifting or strenuous exercise for at least two weeks.

“I will be returning to Switzerland for a few days to finish up some things,” she tells Brigitte, handing her a bag with her clothes and toiletries neatly packed inside, “I will give you my personal number; please do not hesitate to call me if you experience any new or worsening symptoms.”

Brigitte is given an empty room near the front end of the hall, opposite Lúcio's. For the first time she gets to see the inside of an agent’s personal quarters...if it can be called that. They’re more like dormitories, the way they’re packed so close together.

A quick test of the bed reveals a need for a mattress cover and more pillows. Maybe even one for the ceiling; she takes one look at the proximity of the bunk to the stone overhead and predicts that she's going to bang her had at least once. Maybe she ought to un-loft it until her brain heals…

She makes a mental note to give Reinhardt her updated list of things. Personally she would _love_ to go into town and pick it all out herself, but somehow she thinks that a girl with a black eye is the sort of thing that would get noticed.

Later that day her father sends along instructions for getting his defense system back online, as well as a schematic of their locations. She spends the rest of the day working on it; first to restore it and then doing general maintenance on each of them. The ones outside require special attention, having rusted in the salty air.

Over the next few days she learns the layout of the Watchpoint; exploring each nook and cranny. She is interested in the gym (it has a decent array of weightlifting equipment), but more interested in the three practice ranges. Those are something she needs to use, but as she has promised, she won't do anything strenuous.

On the third day after departing, Angela returns with the rest of her medical equipment in tow. The fourth day after Brigitte's release from the med bay, she is eating breakfast with the rest of the agents (minus Winston) when Angela arrives late to breakfast. The doctor has in tow with her someone who Brigitte has never seen, yet who is instantly unmistakable.

Genji Shimada.

Stories of the cybernetically-enhanced ninja agent of Overwatch were numerous, and fantastic. Having never seen him in action, Brigitte didn't know how many of the things Reinhardt has told her are true (can he _really_ parry a hundred bullets with nothing but his sword?) but he certainly _looks_ every inch a deadly warrior, all sleek metal and sharp edges. His enhancements are nothing like her father's--Genji's are sculpted, almost organic in appearance in places; still more man-like than machine. He's talking to Dr. Ziegler in a low voice when they enter the mess hall, but the conversation stops when all attention turns towards them.

“Good morning, everyone,” Angela waves at the sleep-tousled agents and gestures to Genji, who steps forward. “Room for two more?”

Genji inclines his head towards them all, bowing slightly at the waist. “Greetings,” he murmurs, hands clasped in front of him. His voice, Brigitte notices, is even, soft, but with a curious metallic timbre. Reinhardt and Lena both jumped up from the table to greet their old comrade. Bombastic Lena, laughing and exclaiming her welcome excitedly wraps him in a hug, while Reinhardt reaches out to grasp his hand firmly and then pats him on the back so hard that Genji’s feet scrape a little on the floor.

“Genji!” Reinhardt booms, “This is Brigitte--she is my squire, and Torbjörn’s daughter. She has been maintaining my armor these past few years, as well as designing her own!” He sweeps a hand out, indicating that Brigitte should come forward.

Brigitte does, unsure of how she should greet him. She settles for offering her hand, just as Reinhardt had done and he shakes it. His fingers, though metal, feel warm.

“Hello, Brigitte,” he says, releasing her hand. “I am Genji Shimada. It is good to meet any friend of Reinhardt's.”

She can’t see his eyes through the visor covering his face, but she thinks his gaze holds a little longer than normal. Probably the bruising. It’s faded a lot, but is still a nasty, mottled green. “Um, thanks!” she replies, self-conscious, “it's nice to meet you too.”

“And this is Lúcio!” Lena chirps, skipping back to the table and placing her hands on the DJ’s shoulders. “He’s our newest recruit -- he’s got some really cool tech, and our own Dr. Ziegler has taken him under her wing to teach!”

“Lenaaa you’re embarrassing me!” Lúcio mock-whines, and ducks his head away. He stands from the table and Genji comes over to shake his hand as well. “Uh, hey. Nice to meet you.”

“And you as well.” Genji acknowledges, taking a seat with them while Angela goes to load up her plate. “If Dr. Ziegler has taken you as her pupil, I am sure you will become an excellent healer.”

Lúcio rubs a hand on the back of his neck, embarrassed by the compliment. “Man, I hope so! I'll do my best.”

The cyborg does not eat, merely sits with them while they finish their meal, occasionally joining in the conversation until the last scraps of food are being scraped from their plates. Then Lena asks, “So, how have you been getting on Genji? Been up to anything in the last couple years?”

“These last few years I have been many places,” Genji says, sounding faintly amused, “I spent some time in the mountains under the tutelage of my master, who guided me to seek greater understanding of myself. Through him, I was able to seek out my brother and reconcile with him.”

“Wow, that’s great Genji!” Lena gushes, though Brigitte notices that Angela’s expression has become politely interested at best; a strangely plastic expression that doesn't meet her eyes.

“I think it very likely that he will come in search of me. Please, do not be alarmed if a stranger appears on your doorstep in the upcoming weeks.” He bows his head, as if asking forgiveness.

“You didn’t bring him with you?” The words are out of her mouth before Brigitte can stop them. She would have thought such a reconciliation would warrant, well...actual _closeness_. It sounds as though Genji’s brother is hunting him down!

“No. I’m afraid our reconciliation has been some time in coming. He was surprised to see me, and as such has had to make some difficult choices. He and I were both raised as assassins, he, more strictly than I -- he finds it easier to observe before making a decision. Thus, he follows me.” Genji raises his head, tilting his visor to look towards one of the high windows. “I cannot stay here long. I came only to acknowledge the call and pledge my aid. I must journey back to my master; I wish for him to join our cause. I believe he would be of great assistance.”

“Aw, you only just got here!” Lena's disappointment is palpable.

Genji tilts his head to her, contrite. “My apologies. I will endeavor to return quickly.”

After breakfast Genji and Angela part ways from them, and Brigitte does not see the cyborg again that day. She does however receive word from her father -- he is returning to the Watchpoint in four days time, bringing his caravan of equipment. When she hears this she begs him to detour Reinhardt’s castle on the way; she desperately wants to get ahold of her tecra-magnesium so she can resume work on her new shield. This leads to an awkward conversation -- he's suspicious as to how she managed to forget such a vital piece of equipment, so she has to come up with an excuse quickly. Her excuse? That Reinhardt had distracted her by busting one of the propulsors on his rocket hammer in the process of loading it. It works, but it leaves her with the dilemma that she still has to tell him the truth; there will be no hiding it when he arrives.

That evening Dr. Ziegler brings her to the med bay to have her staples removed. The wound has progressed well into healing--even more quickly than the doctor had expected. The flesh has healed around the base of the staples, so Angela has to tug quite firmly to pull them out. One apology and a sore scalp later, Brigitte is free.

The next week Brigitte starts creeping off to the bluffs early in the morning before breakfast. She wants to do some light training, but is afraid that if she uses the practice ranges or the weight room that she’ll be stopped by a well-meaning Reinhardt or Angela.

It's quite nice out there; the cool breeze coming off the ocean, the warmth of the sun as it slowly creeps over the horizon and the cries if the seabirds as they take to the sky is meditative. She's able to move through exercise forms and clear her mind at the same time.

One morning as she looks over the cliffs she thinks she spots a flash of gold, but it disappears before she can track it.

Brigitte finds that she isn't being as sneaky as she had hoped when she slinks down late to breakfast one morning, a little out of breath. She had gotten distracted watching a distant tanker sailing by which had forced her to test the integrity of her lungs with a run back. Normally she’d wait a few minutes before entering the hall to regain her breath and her normal color, but she’s too hungry for that today. She catches Reinhardt eyeing her suspiciously over their food, but ignores it. It's only when she's the last one washing her dishes that he corners her.

“ _Shildlein_ , have you been... _exercising_?” he blurts the accusation out at her, disapproval evident in his tone. Really, he acts like he’s caught her destroying his armor.

“Yep!” she says, acknowledging her guilt easily. She isn't ashamed of it, and Dr. Ziegler hasn't expressly said 'no exercise.’ “Why?”

“You know you're supposed to be resting!” he growls, crossing his arms. He's trying to look all big and disapproving blocking the door but she knows how to shatter that illusion instantly.

“Angela said I could resume _light duty_. She didn't say I have to _take to my bed until my bruises heal!_ ” she gets close enough that he can't avoid it when she reaches out to poke him sharply in his side, a known ticklish spot. His posture breaks down as he flinches away from the touch. “Besides, I'm not doing any heavy lifting. Just forms.” she says the last bit gloomily; she can't wait until she's cleared to weight lift and spar again. The more weights she lifts, the more she can eat! She passes through the now-unblocked door and looks back over her shoulder. “Promise. Come out to the cliffside tomorrow morning at six and you'll see.”

That's how Reinhardt ends up joining her in the mornings. They resume sparring--though it is much slower, gentler, and well away from the bluffs. Without the padding each strike must be pulled to avoid injury, and Reinhardt is going easy on her. He's hesitant to grab, throw or hit and it's obvious why. Aside from taking care regarding her injuries, she catches him sometimes with his guard down. Usually when he thinks she isn't looking, the expression in his face is one of quiet melancholy. Like it hurts him to look at her.

Gradually as her bruises fade so too does that look.

Her father's return is what she's been greatly anticipating. The day of his arrival she can scarcely stop herself from waiting around all day in the hangar, where the hidden entrance from the road is. She eventually gives up on trying to avoid the hangar and resigns herself to tidying the area up, dusting and organizing shelves, then even sweeps the massive place out. It's nearing eleven when she hears a rumbling that grows louder and louder, until out of the tunnel-like entrance comes an enormous red trailer.

The trailer circles in the huge hangar before parking squarely in the middle, and even before the engine is cut and the door is thrown open she is running towards it.

“Papa!” As soon as he exits the vehicle he’s wrapped up in a bear hug. She knows now that he’s here she can’t disguise her injuries any more, but her happiness at having him here eclipses that.

“Been awhile since I've seen ya, hasn't it?” he grunts, but the tone of his voice is pleased.  “Did ya manage to get the turrets up and runni-- _what_ _happened to your face?!”_ As they break from their embrace he finally takes a good look at her and almost shouts in alarm. The bruises are faded greenish-yellow now, but still apparent. At least he can't see the scab still marring her scalp.

“That's kind of a long story,” she says, embarrassed. They are currently the only ones in the garage, so maybe it's best that she tell him before the others show up. “Well, about a two weeks after the recall Reinhardt received a letter--”

She pares the story down to it's essentials; the request, the omnic relics, the firefight and the flight back.

“Dr. Ziegler said I had a fracture and a bleed in my skull but she didn't need to operate. My last scan showed the blood is all gone now though and my fracture is pretty much healed, I'm almost totally back to normal!” she finishes, trying to end on a good note.

Her father has stood mostly silent through her recollection of the events, but she can see his face getting redder and redder behind his beard.

“And ye didn't think about tellin’ me this _before_ now?!” he exclaims, waving his arms in exasperation, “You could've died! I knew traipsing all over the countryside was dangerous, your mother and I shoulda never allowed it! Why she'd never forgive me if you'd have--”

“Papa!” she yells over him, interrupting him before his ranting can gather steam, “I am an _adult!_ I made my choice! I knew what could happen when I decided to be Reinhardt's squire and I've accepted the risks!” Now she's getting deja Vu; this whole argument sounds exactly like what she told Reinhardt before. Unfortunately her father isn't as easy to pacify as he was.

“Reinhardt!” he roars, bursting back into a fit of pique. “Where is that old fool?! What was he doin’ while you were gettin’ shot?! Isn't bein’ a _big shield_ his specialty? Why I ought ta _\--_ ”

“PAPA!” she tries again to shout him down, “It wasn't his fault either! It wasn't _anyone's_ fault except the people trying to kill us! Winston thinks--”

Evidently their heated reunion has attracted attention. There is the sound of a door opening and as they both turn to look Winston, followed by Lena and Reinhardt amble through.

“Torbjörn!” Lena’s delighted cry echoes around the hangar like the peal of bells. She speeds across the room in a blue blur and throws her arms around him, shattering the argument when he reflexively catches her up in a hug. The force of the embrace swings them around so that Lena ends up facing Brigitte, and over his shoulder she tips her a wink. “I’m so glad you’re finally back!”

Winston lopes up to them, reaches out to pat Torbjörn hesitantly on the shoulder.

“Is, uh, everything okay?” he asks.

Surrounded by his friends, her father's ire is effectively dampened.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, returning Lena's embrace with slightly more enthusiasm, “just having a little _talk_ with my daughter.” He releases Lena and turns to face Brigitte, pointing a finger at her. “We'll finish this discussion later.”

“Need any help moving stuff?” Lena asks, and Torbjörn accepts, directing them to the back of the trailer where they form a line to  load up his equipment on dollies and carts.

The afternoon is spent moving his tools and machinery into the workshop, where he orders them around with the efficiency of a general directing his troops. Once everything is in its proper place he takes Brigitte with him to inspect each turret, gruffly acknowledging her proficiency when he can find nothing wrong with her handiwork. Each weapon registers on Athena's network, coupling seamlessly with her drones to provide complete coverage over the Watchpoint.

One thing her father _does_ show her that she wasn't aware of is the bot system in the training ranges--aside from pre-programmable attack patterns and customizable parts, the training bots are remarkably resilient, yet simple.

“Well they’d have to be, or I’d spend more time fixin’ em than workin’ on anything else!” Torbjörn grouses. He shows her the assembly lines where used bots are methodically taken apart, each piece is tuned up or replaced, and then reassembled.  He shows her the program’s simple algorithms for creating training simulations.

“Winston’s got a more advanced version of this.” He says, exiting the program. “He’s the brains behind our practice missions, after all. Got a knack for code that I just don’t got.”

They return to his workshop briefly before dinner where Brigitte picks out the tools she’ll need to knock hers and Reinhardt’s armor back into shape. The abrupt flight from Andreas’s farm meant that she hadn’t been able to collect any of the tools from the castle, beyond the simple ones Reinhardt had retrieved from the caravan. Their armor had been languishing so far in disrepair; something that had vexed her endlessly. She had been half-tempted to beg Lena to fly them to their castle, but feared the misappropriation of resources. Well, tomorrow she would get everything back into tip-top shape!

They join the team for dinner, and Brigitte tries to drag out the meal as long as she can. She knows from the side-eyes her father is giving her that he’s going to drag her away for another little ‘talk’ as soon as it’s over.

Unfortunately, she’s right.

“You two, with me.” He says, tapping both she and Reinhardt on the back as they carry their plates into the kitchen. They follow him away from the others, outside past one of the storehouses and onto the grassy rim of the cliffside. She notes a turret within easy view of where he stops.

“Alright then,” he says, turning to them, “I’ve heard _your_ story,” he points to Brigitte, “Now I want to hear it from _you_ ,” he points a metal finger at Reinhardt. “What happened on that farm?”

Reinhardt launches into the story and Brigitte listens with interest. She's already heard it when she listened in on their meeting but this time she tries to fill in the gaps of her memory with what he's saying. It's only a little illuminating; Reinhardt hadn't witnessed the part where she was injured after all.

By the time Reinhardt is done talking, her father is rubbing his furrowed forehead as though fending off a headache.

“And somehow, neither one of ya thought about telling me this?” he grouses, though it lacks the intensity it had before.

“Ehh...no,” Reinhardt answers, sheepish, “I wanted to speak with you about it when you arrived. Everything was a bit hectic, when we got here you see...” he trails off, looking at Brigitte and leaving no doubt as to the reason behind the jumbled arrival. She leaps in to take some of the blame too.

“And I told Reinhardt not to tell you what happened,” she says, “so it’s not his fault you didn’t know about me. I just didn’t want you or mom to worry.”

“Still woulda been _nice_ to know!” Torbjörn argues, “I mean, you’da wanted to know if it was me or yer mother that was hurt, wouldn’t ya?”

She has to acknowledge that. “Yeah…” There’s nothing can be done now though except ask for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, Papa.” Brigitte gives him the puppy eyes, willing him to soften. This time, it works. He accepts a hug from her.

In the tight embrace he mutters. “I’m glad yer okay, Brigitte.”

“I’m glad too,” she admits. “Dr. Ziegler has taken real good care of me. I’m healing way faster than she expected.” The embrace breaks apart, and as they step away her father casts a longer, harder glance over her face, taking in the bruising again.

“Well, I trust Angela to do her job well. She’s patched us all up more times than I can count.” he acknowledges, and then dismisses the matter entirely to switch to a new subject.

“Alright then. You’re _sure_ those were Bastion 45 Siege Automatons?”

All in all, Brigitte thinks she’s ended up getting off remarkably light. Either her father has gotten softer in the months its been since she’d last seen him, or the mention of Angela has allowed him a measure of trust regarding her recovery. Maybe both. She had known that in the years since Overwatch was disbanded that he had dark suspicions surrounding the organization, in no small part due to Reinhardt’s unceremonious dismissal. He has always trusted Dr. Ziegler though. Perhaps that’s what saving someone’s life does -- forges an unbreakable bond of closeness between them.

They spend time talking over the events at the farm as night falls, bouncing ideas off of each other. It’s interesting to watch this happen between Reinhardt and her father; each time it does it reinforces why they are such great friends. Reinhardt is the idea man, posing increasingly grandiose hypotheses that Torbjörn either knocks down or refines, creating a branching network of possibilities, none of which are particularly good. They are all in agreement that this theft, coupled with the omnium activity in Russia bodes ill for the future. Torbjörn thinks it may have something to do with the assassination of Tekkhartha Mondatta; the year anniversary of his death is around the same time that the omnium restarted, after all.

It’s all pretty wild to think about. By the time she goes to bed Brigitte’s head is abuzz with different ideas. What does it all _mean_ though? That was one question none of them had been able to find a suitable answer for. She fears that the answer may come too late for them to do anything but scramble to react.

 

\----

 

In the ensuing weeks Brigitte accomplishes a great deal. Both hers and Reinhardt’s armor is restored to its former glory, and since her father had been so kind as to pick up her molds and equipment she has begun the final refining of her new, lighter shield. Winston has started running simulations with the bots now that they have enough people to form a team. She is forced to watch from the sidelines, having not been cleared from light duty by Dr. Ziegler yet. Sometimes she watches the sims, marveling at the ease at which the team assembles. Even Lucio, who has never run a sim or fought on a team like this before takes to it like a duck to water.

“It’s a lot like playing football, really,” he confesses one day when they sit down to lunch, “knowing where everyone on the team is, being able to cover them, mount an offense. Except instead of scoring goals, you’re shooting ‘bots.”

The main problem with the team currently is that, while they’re doing quite well in the defensive and medical departments, they lack a lot of the offensive firepower they know they’ll need to take on the omnium. A partial solution to this arrives a few days after the two-month mark since the recall.

They are preparing dinner in the mess hall, Brigitte helping Reinhardt to pat ground beef into patties when they hear the distinct sound of Winston’s heavy gait coming down the hall, accompanied by a curious jangling sound. Lena and Angela abandon their setting of the table, and Brigitte looks around at the sudden exclamations of delight.

There’s a man accompanying Winston, dressed in the strangest garb she’s ever seen. He’s wearing a brown hat tipped low over his face, shielding his eyes. His pants are the same dusty earth color as his hat, though it appears as though he’s wearing riding chaps over them. There’s the glint of a bronze chest plate from beneath the bright red garment he has wrapped about his shoulders. It looks like he’s got a prosthetic arm just like Papa has, though his prosthetic only extends to his elbow. Heavy belts criss-cross at his hips, and there’s the thick outline of a gun holster at his waist, cradled in the shadows his red cape creates.  Above all it’s the golden shine of his enormous belt buckle and the jingling spurs that tell her who he is--this must be Jesse McCree.

“Jesse!” Angela trills, delighted as she flits to him and is welcomed into an embrace.

“Angela!” Brigitte can hear the thick, foreign drawl in his voice as he speaks for the first time. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” He sweeps the hat from his head with a free hand, tucking it under his arm.

“McCree!” Lena wedges herself into the hug under his other arm, and Brigitte can hear the metallic _clink_ of her chronal accelerator as it impacts his chest plate from the force of her hug. “You’ve still got your hat!”

“Accourse I do! Never leave home without it.”

Reinhardt abandons the meat to greet his comrade with the rest of them, and Brigitte joins him in washing her hands off at the sink before flanking the small crowd that has formed near the mess hall doors.

“Been a dog’s age since I seen you lot!” McCree says as he releases the women from his grasp and reaches out to shake both Torbjörn and Reinhardt’s hands. “How ya been?”

“Jesse, my friend! You are looking tanner than ever!” Reinhardt exclaims as he releases the gunman from his grip and pats him heartily on the back.

“Yeah, it’s that Albuquerque sun. It’ll turn ya brown as a nut.” McCree laughs, inspecting his tanned forearm. Though he has been distracted by the familiar faces of his former teammates, Brigitte watches the gunslinger’s eyes rove curiously over her and Lúcio, who stand half-hidden in the back.

“Ah, but I am being rude!” Reinhardt realizes that he hasn’t properly introduced them. “Jesse, this is Brigitte Lindholm, my squire!”

“And _my_ daughter.” Torbjörn interjects.

“Brigitte, this is Jesse McCree. Our own personal cowboy!”

“Howdy, darlin’.” McCree reaches out to shake her hand. Without the hat shielding his face she can see him fully now. Everything about him looks... _wild_. From the shaggy fringes of his hair to the long scruff of his beard, he’s all untamed, rough edges; a man toeing the line of bestial. Despite this his brown eyes are kind. He even _smells_ warm, like a burned-out fire. She’s been so busy inspecting him that she hasn’t let go of the handshake yet.

“Alright, that’s about enough of that," her father cuts in, and Jesse releases her hand.

Lena speeds around them to stand next to Lúcio.

“And this is Lúcio! He’s our newest member, all the way from Brazil. He’s becoming a dab hand at doctoring, I gotta say,” she smiles, nudging Lúcio as he reaches out to shake the cowboy’s hand too.

“Medic, huh?” McCree says, rubbing his prosthetic arm thoughtfully, “gotta say, even with our guardian angel here we could always use more.”

“Perhaps you are just a magnet for trouble.” Angela retorts, leading him towards the table and plunking a stack of dishes in his hands.

“That’s what my ma always said!” McCree jokes, and everyone drifts back into their roles as dinner gets underway. Jesse seems to be familiar with the evening routine, even though it’s been years since the team has been back together. He sets the table without complaint, even offering to take over Brigitte’s role as patty-former in the assembly line, which she declines.

The topic of conversation over dinner naturally turns to what the cowboy has been up to in his time off, to which his answer is vague at best.

“Had some business to take care of in Mexico, then met up with some old friends in Arizona,” he drawls, “then o’course I took a little detour through the Rocky Mountains. Wanted to see for myself what Helix had done to the old Watchpoint Grand Mesa. Don’t look like we’ll be gettin’ that one back. Winston had me do some scoutin’ of the abandoned eco-points in the midwest to see if we could use any of ‘em, and then I hopped a few freighters to come back here.”

“Wow! It sounds like you’ve been really busy!” Lena remarks over her burger, “Feels like I’ve just been layin’ about, compared to you!”

McCree laughs, a warm, hearty sound. “Naw. It was a lot of travelin’ sure but I didn’t _do_ much of anything. Kinda expected it would take me a few months before I came back, but Helix had a bigger hold over the Mesa than I expected, and I didn’t have to clear any varmints out of those ol’ eco-points. Kinda disappointin’, really. But at least we still got a few places we can use in America.”  

“Thanks for doing that, Jesse,” Winston says from the end of the table where he is scooping peanut butter from a jar onto a banana. This is the first meal he’s ever joined them for -- Brigitte can see now why he prefers not to. The seats simply aren’t meant for him to sit on, so he has to crouch at the table’s end. “Getting those ecopoints online means Athena can start gathering data. Once she can get some drones in the air we’ll be able to have more eyes all over the country.”

“Mmm, yeah. You can never get enough data,” McCree remarks absentmindedly, looking around the table as though he’s missing someone, “speaking of Athena, are she and Echo catching up? I ain’t seen her at all yet.”

“Echo?” Winston pauses, mid-bite at the name, “Echo is back online too?” His sentiment is repeated by Lena and Angela, both looking interested at the mention of their former colleague.

“Uh, yeah,” McCree lowers his own burger at Winston’s confusion, “she was one o’ the reasons I was in Arizona. Told her Overwatch was comin’ back together and that she should come here. She didn’t come?”

“Well….no,” Winston admits, “I’ll have Athena look and see if she can contact her though.”

Echo. That is a name Brigitte has heard before, though infrequently. She was an omnic shell, styled very differently from the automatons seen today. Reinhardt had mentioned her infrequently, stating only that her abilities had been ‘formidable’. Perhaps when she returned to Overwatch Brigitte would get to see those abilities for herself.

 

\------

 

The next few days Winston really kicks the simulations into gear. Now that the team is more rounded out, they work even more efficiently, churning through bots at a speed that wows Brigitte. McCree is quite the sharpshooter, and the number of bot eliminations increases by nearly a third now that he’s here. Brigitte can’t wait until she's cleared to join; she’s already strategizing how her strengths will add to the group. It’s possible she could cover the more mobile heroes like Lúcio and McCree to take up different angles of attack…

A week passes, and everyone seems to have fallen into a routine. She and Reinhardt are the earliest risers, but they do early-morning conditioning and stretching before joining the rest of the team for breakfast. McCree’s presence for the meal is spotty; sometimes he joins them, other times Brigitte can spot him near the bluffs down by the shuttle launchpad, leaning on the metal guardrails and puffing smoke from some kind of cigar.

The late mornings are spent in the workshop, either helping her father on a project or working on her own. Occasionally she forces herself to go for a run, just to keep her heart healthy. Lena joins her sometimes, only to run giggling circles around her in a blue blur. Lunch is a more disorganized affair, reminiscent of hers and Reinhardt's lunches back at the castle. Brigitte takes some time to watch the news and relax, or else head to Lúcio's room to listen to him experiment with his music; she and he have become fast friends in the aftermath of her injury.

The battle sims are run in the late afternoon, just before dinner. Winston sometimes lets Brigitte take control of them when he wants the team to practice responding to completely unpredictable motions. Thankfully the bots shoot only light projectiles or else she’d be quite uncomfortable sending them after her friends.

Dinner is a far grander affair. While it is primarily Reinhart who cooks, they all take turns assisting with the preparation of ingredients, setting the table and washing dishes. More often than not Brigitte ends up as his personal assistant, being more familiar with his methods than any of the others.

After dinner everyone is free to do what they like, but regularly Lena, Lúcio, Brigitte and Reinhardt gather in the rec room for a movie, rotating who gets to pick. If they're still feeling energetic after the meal they take their activities outside, enjoying the evening air.

One memorable night Lúcio tries to teach them all street hockey, inviting everyone to try on a spare pair of rollerblades he has. Brigitte declines, though they do look tempting. She's never skated in any capacity before, but with her injury scarcely two months behind her she thinks now is probably not the best time to try. Instead she and and anyone else who wants to join take up spare brooms and run up and down the road, trying to swat a tennis ball into makeshift goals.

All in all, life at Watchpoint Gibraltar is good. If it weren't for the simulations, she could almost forget about the possible intervention in Russia.

Then, one Friday night Winston holds an impromptu meeting over dinner.

“I've received correspondence from Mei-Ling Zhou climatologist at ecopoint Antarctica,” he says, tapping his holopad. It’s interesting news; Brigitte had thought that all the Watchpoints and ecopoints outside of theirs and the ones in America McCree had managed to get online were defunct.

“They're still there?” Angela asks, frowning, “I thought everyone abandoned it when the storm hit.”

“The team wasn’t able to. By the time they realized the storm wasn't showing any signs of stopping, they were critically low on supplies and had to enter cryostasis.”

Angela gasps in response, though Brigitte doesn't know why.

“But that is so dangerous! The technology behind re-thawing is completely unreliable!”

The express on Winston's face is grim. “Yes. That's why she was the only survivor.”

The news ripples through them, sending up a flurry of distressed murmurs. Brigitte isn't aware of how many people were stationed at that ecopoint, but she want to think about how devastating it would be to wake up and find all her friends dead.

“For nine years she was asleep. Mei says she re-thawed a few weeks ago, but power to the ecopoint was disrupted by winter storms. She was trying to transmit the data her team had gathered, but the backup power ran out and she had to rig up a new com link to get out her reply.” Winston rubs his chin thoughtfully. “It's quite ingenious, how she did it. Anyway, when she re-established connection she got my message and decided to answer the call.”

Brigitte thinks she can see a sparkle in Winston's eyes behind his lenses. He clearly admires Mei.

“She’s on her way from Antarctica now. I've asked her to make a few stops on the way here, like I asked McCree and she agreed. I can't say for certain how long it will take for her to arrive, but we will eventually have one more member!”

They celebrate the news by cracking open some drinks and sharing them around the table. Brigitte, slightly tipsy gets more than she bargains for later that night when she asks Winston what Mei researches.

“Well, the climatologists there have been monitoring the changing weather patterns for years. She and her colleagues have been using climate-manipulation technology to preserve at-risk ecosystems, as well as study the increasing weather instability. They were posted in Antarctica to monitor an atmospheric anomaly that may correlate with --”

Winston rapidly outstrips Brigitte's limited knowledge of the subject, but she attempts to understand, nodding along while she watches the others start a 2-on-2 game of street hockey out of the corner of her eye.

The sky is purpling by the time he finishes speaking, and Brigitte’s head feels stuffed, unable to parse through all the information he’s imparted on her. All she can do is tell him how interesting Mei’s research sounds before excusing herself, citing a headache.

That night she lays in bed, idly perusing the net to wind down. On a whim, she searches Mei-Ling Zhou and finds a few hits. Most are old articles, citing Mei as an authority on one subject or another, but one is not. She clicks it to find the headline:

**“RESEARCH TEAM ASSEMBLED FOR LANDMARK EXHIBITION”**

Beneath the headline, a picture. Six people, dressed in what looks like polar gear stand together in front of a bright red transport helicopter. They’re crowded together for the picture, some with arms around each other while others kneel. They’re all smiling. The photo’s caption reads:

_Scientists MacReady, Arrhenius, Zhou, Opara, Adams and Torres prepare for takeoff!_

As Brigitte looks into each smiling face she fixes on Mei. The scientist’s face is heart-shaped, framed with a dark swoop of bangs, her mouth open as if in laughter. She has her arm slung around the shoulders of the woman, Arrhenius next to her and she’s giving a peace sign with the other hand. She looks so excited, happy to be part of her team. They _all_ look so happy.

None of them could have known what would happen. It must have been terrible, to be surrounded by the everyday bustle of work and friends one day, and be completely alone the next. Not to mention the shock of finding yourself nine years into the future. How had Mei managed alone? She must be an incredible woman to survive that.

Brigitte tries to imagine waking up tomorrow and finding the Watchpoint empty. Her mind shuts the thought off, too terrible to even consider. The loss of her new friends, her father, and Reinhardt.

The thought haunts her as she falls asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Tuesday. Four days after Winston's announcement, it's a glorious day, for Dr. Ziegler has finally cleared Brigitte for regular duty.

The scans all show her fracture is fully healed, no sign of blood in her brain and the bullet graze is only a pink scar now.

“I’ve said it before, but the speed at which you healed is quite remarkable.” Angela says as she inspects Brigitte's head, cool fingers pressing gently at her temples and crown. “No pain?”

“Nope!” In fact, Brigitte feels completely normal.

She almost floats into the kitchen for breakfast, and hums her way through her oatmeal and eggs. When Reinhardt asks her if she’s feeling okay, her only answer is an enthusiastic grin and an invitation for him to join her in the weight room today.

“You’ve been cleared?” he asks, face lighting up in answer to her own excitement.

“Yep!” she says, “which means we can get back to training full-strength!” She has missed it terribly. Getting back into sparring and lifting has been one of the things she’s looked forward to most.

They plan to meet in the weight room that morning about an hour after breakfast, so their food has time to settle. In the down time she visits Lúcio, returning to him the speaker she had taken with her from the med bay.

“Thanks for this!” she says, handing it to him, “I’ve said it before but I think you're the reason I got better so quickly. I owe you one!”

“Oh, no, it ain't nothin’!” Lúcio flaps a hand, shrugging off the thanks. “ _You_ did all the healing, this just helped it along!”

She hangs out with him for a few minutes to talk about his music; she has been curious about the tune that had been playing on repeat while she was healing. Turns out, it's a song he composed himself, though she should have guessed as much. He is a voracious composer, spending much of his free time in his room creating.

The setup he has impresses her every time she sees it; the dark blue eggshell padding lining the walls and ceiling give it an almost cave-like feel. The green lights that adorn his turntables, speakers and even his headphones glow like bioluminescent algae, pulsing in time with the music that thrums ever-present in the background. It's completely, totally _him_.

This reminds her that she really should get something to personalize her room a little more…

After a nice chat Brigitte makes her way down to the weight room, feeling cheered. She throws open the door to see rows of dumbbells, the hulking frames of weight platforms, the gleam of Olympic bars resting on racks. The smell of iron predominates, undercurrented by the faintly medicinal tang of cleaning products.

She is home.

Reinhardt arrives as she is putting plates on the bars and moving equipment to set up for her usual circuit of exercises. He raises an eyebrow at the amount of weight she's loaded on the up.

“Are you certain you want to start so heavy?” he asks, “you have been away from here for awhile.”

He's right of course, which sucks. She removes some plates reluctantly while he sets up his own, considerably heavier weights.

Reinhardt constantly has to remind her to go easy, lest she push her muscles too far. Grumbling, she drops to 60% of her prior capacity for each set; she doesn’t want the soreness that is sure to follow to inhibit her workouts for several days after all. And Winston is planning a training sim this afternoon; she has to ensure she has enough energy for that.

After pushing herself through three sets of squats, shoulder presses, curls and bench presses she can already tell that she might have overdone it. Her muscles feel a bit like jello; when she pushes herself to finish the last two reps they quiver and quake, burning with exhaustion.

Normally she would do a set of four, dropping even more weight for the last set to do a total burnout and really ensure that she can't lift her arms the next morning, but she thinks she's already past that point.

“Man, I am really going to be feeling this tomorrow!” she complains good-naturedly as she racks her bar, rubbing her arms.

“I told you you should go easy,” Reinhardt says, helping her up so she can spot him for his last set, “but did you listen to me?”

“I know, I know,” she says, taking her spot at the head of the bench as he unracks the bar, “I just got a little carried away…”

She hovers overhead as he grunts his way through his set, ready to snatch the bar if he shows any signs of failure, but he pushes through. Instead of sitting back on her own bench, she starts re-racking her plates. Each movement feels a bit rusty, a sure sign that she's overdone it.

“I sure hope Winston goes easy on us today,” she jokes, spraying down a hand towel liberally with disinfectant, “I don't think I'm going to make a good impression if I can't hold my shield up.”

“Why? You don’t need to be part of the simulations,” Reinhardt says, confused. He begins to re-rack his own weights, used to doing only three sets.

“What? Yeah I do!” she says, wiping down her bench, “How else am I going learn to be a part of the team?” It seems pretty obvious to her that she has to be there.

“But...you aren’t part of Overwatch,” he says, and his voice sounds strange. He's watching her intently, and ends up spraying the disinfectant next to the towel instead of on it at first.

She’s beginning to get confused. Surely her membership is just a technicality at this point; she hasn’t ever actually formally _asked_ to join after all, just assumed. As Reinhardt’s squire, she would need to be a part of the organization so she could watch over him during missions.

“Fine,” she retorts, “I’ll go ask Winston now, and he’ll put me into the system and _then_ I’ll be at the training sim this afternoon.”

Reinhardt halts, partway through cleaning his own bench. “Winston isn’t in charge of deciding who will join Overwatch. And besides, you aren’t going to be a member.” He says it in such an offhand manner, as though she is silly for even thinking she would be. That statement is so at odds with her expectations that she can’t do anything but gape at him for a second. _He thought she wasn’t going to be a member?_

“Uh, well he decided that Lúcio should join, so I don’t see why he can’t approve me as well,” she responds, “and what do you mean _I’m not going to be a member?_ ”

She can see him realize that she is becoming upset.

“But...you are too young!” he says, dropping his ratty towel towel onto his bench and focusing completely on her, “and it is far too dangerous.”

This is the first she’s heard of an age limit for members. She’s legally an adult, so why should there be any objection on that front? Not to mention, Lúcio can’t be that much older than her!

What she’s most irritated by is his last statement though, and that’s where she focuses.

“Oh, it’s _dangerous?_ ” she can’t strip the sarcastic edge from her voice when she responds, “well, I guess that’s it then. I’ve _never_ been in dangerous situations before!” He frowns, disapproving of her tone but she continues. “I mean, really! How could you think that I wouldn’t want to join? I’ve been in dangerous situations with you before--how am I going to watch your back if I’m not on the team?!”

Brigitte drops her towel in favor of putting both hands on her hips and staring him down. She can see them reflected in the mirrors; her posture aggressive, yet open. His relaxed, but wary. It's not a real fight -- yet -- and she hopes she can keep it from becoming one. She’s pretty sure she knows exactly where his reluctance is stemming from before he even answers.

“I know you want to join.” He says carefully. “But being a member of Overwatch is far different from anything you’ve faced before. There could be situations--no, it is very likely there _will_ be situations as dangerous as the one we faced on Andreas’s farm, if not more so!” He approaches her, hands held up pleadingly. “Besides, I’m sure your father would not approve.”

Oh, that is the _wrong_ thing to say. She has to bite her lip before she explodes, and takes a deep breath before responding. After everything that's happened she should have expected this attitude, but it still rankles.

“Reinhardt,” she says, slowly and carefully, still tamping down on her anger. “With all due respect, neither you or my father should be able to choose this for me.” There, that’s coming out nice and even. “And I’m pretty sure you’re saying all this because you’re worried about me, but can’t you see that I’m just as worried about you? We’ve been a team these last few years, and you’ve always trusted me. You’ve _always_ supported me. Why not now?” She’s proud of herself for holding in her temper. Though she and Reinhardt can both be quite, er...passionate about their beliefs, her reasoning in this has to make sense to him.

He stands at the weight rack, staring first at her, then at the floor, then at the room as though he’s searching it for an answer.

Finally, he sighs.

“I just...don’t want you to get hurt again.”

Bingo.

“I know.” She picks up her dropped towel, squeezing it in her hands. “But you can’t prevent every outcome. I could just as easily leave Overwatch and get hurt in a-a machine accident while working or something. I know you want to protect me, but trust me to protect myself.” She walk by him to head out the door back to her room, and flicks the towel out to snap perilously close to his stomach. “Besides, wouldn’t you rather have me where you _can_ keep an eye on me? There’s no telling what I could get up to while you’re away on missions!”

Reinhardt rolls his eyes at her and picks up his own towel again. “Just talk to your father about it before you go to Winston, _Shildlein_.”

She promises she will. Not only because she thinks Winston will want the input of both Reinhardt and her father before he approves her, but because she’s going to keep to her word about talking to him when things happen.

Brigitte opts not to join in on the simulation that day. After lunch she finds the exhaustion that had plagued her when she was first recovering seems to have crept back minutely. It’s nowhere near as bone-deep as before, but perhaps working out for the first time in forever has taxed her more than she knows. Disappointing, but she has to start somewhere.

Instead of joining them she goes to work in the shop. Her father had brought her shield prototype, but it's still in the mold. He has been using his workshop since he arrived, tweaking new additions to the turret system that he plans to install later in the week. This will be the first time that she has the whole place to herself, and she makes good use of it. Brigitte works for hours, pushing herself through her tiredness so she can have a majority of the work done before he is back.

By the time her father enters the room she has sandblasted most of the surface imperfections out of the metal and beaten it out of its slightly warped shape. She just needs to heat-treat it and add the particle field generators before she buffs the surface to a gleaming shine and inlays the lions-head crest that is now her trademark.

That will be work for another day though.

“Makin’ a new shield are you?” Torbjörn says as she hangs the metal frame on a wall hook, “the old one not suitable anymore?”

“The old one’s fine,” she says, cleaning up her workstations, “just wanted to see if I could make the whole thing a little lighter.”

He nods approvingly, inspecting the frame. “It’s a good idea. Just don’t forget to compensate for the weight when you install the crest. Too much of a load on the front end will skew it forward.”

She nods along in agreement. She's already taken that into consideration; this crest is much thinner than the old one.

“Thanks Papa! Shop’s all yours now,” Brigitte waves goodbye to him and turns to go, only stopping to look back when he calls out to her.

“Say, can I get your help tomorrow with installing the new targeting system? I want to do some troubleshooting before I give it to Winston to patch through.”

“Sure thing!”

Aside from liking to help her father, it doesn’t hurt to get into his good graces before the discussion she plans on having with him tonight.

After a quick shower she joins everyone in setting up for dinner. There’s plenty of dicing to do with stir fry, not that she minds. The rhythmic click of the knife on the cutting board is almost meditative, allowing her thoughts to wander freely even as conversation swirls around her. She’s trying to imagine how the talk tonight will go, to predict what her father is going to say so she can best counter it.

Dinner is a quick affair. They mix it up this evening, taking bowls of hot stir fry into the rec area to recline on the sofa and watch TV. There is some argument over whether they should watch the news (“They call _that_ news? Pointless drivel if you ask me.”) a sitcom, (“Didn’t they just play this episode last week?”) or a movie, and in the end the movie wins out.

Action films seem to be universally accepted, so Lena picks the fourth remake of _Spiderman_ that they all cringe their way through.

That night before bed she walks down the hall to her father’s room. It’s opposite of Reinhardt’s, which is fitting of the two best friends. She knocks on the door, letting herself in when she hears him bark out permission.

“Hi, Papa!” she says, shutting the door behind her.

“Brigitte,” he acknowledges, spinning around in his desk chair to face her. He is in his pajamas. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Papa!” she holds back laughter at his immediate suspicion, “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Oh. Well, best be out with it then,” he says, indicating for her to take a seat on his bunk. She sits, sees that he has one of her mother’s quilts spread on the bed, and pulls a corner of it over herself. She steels herself to say the words, curling her fingers into loose fists beneath the blanket.

“Papa, I want to join Overwatch.”

Six simple little words. She had been worrying over them all day, ever since her discussion with Reinhardt that morning. She was completely aware that it was very likely her father’s stance was exactly the same as Reinhardts, and even though she could use the same arguments against him, they were unlikely to be nearly as successful. He was her father, after all. She wasn’t sure she could attain membership without his approval.

One heartbeat, then several more. Her hands are closing tighter beneath the blanket; she can feel her blunt fingernails pressing into her palms. Her father stares at her from his chair, his expression unreadable. Why did he have to have such a thick beard? It was at least good that he wasn’t turning red yet.

Finally, he sighs.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” he admits, grudgingly.

“You’re not?” she says. Her fingers pause in their squeezing.

“Tch, no,” this time it is he who snorts in response, “look at who you’re workin’ for! Reinhardt’s been fillin’ yer head with his tall tales ever since ye were born! Of _course_ you’d want to join Overwatch!”

Well, she’s not sure her desire to join Overwatch is purely from that. She will admit though when she was little hearing his stories of honor, valor, and glory _had_ been awe inspiring. She’s old enough now though to understand the reality of the sorts of things he and her father had faced then. Heck, just seeing the work her father had done for Overwatch had been inspiring in itself! He’s just as much a motivator for her as Reinhardt.

“So...you approve?” she says, hopeful.

“No!” he retorts, sliding out of his chair to come sit next to her on the bed, “of course I don’t!”

“You sound like Reinhardt,” she pouts glumly. This is going exactly how she expected.

“Somethin’ me and that old fart agree on, imagine that.”

“But _why not_?” Brigitte tries not to afflict a whiny tone. Sounding like a child is just going to hurt her argument.

“You want me to go down the list?” he holds up non-prosthetic hand, ticking off each finger, “aside from bein’ technically _illegal_ , it’s _dangerous_ ,” one finger down, “it’ll be _hard, thankless work_ gettin’ this organization accepted back into the world,” another finger curls into his palm, “it’s _dangerous_ ,” a third finger gone, “it's a target for other organizations like _Talon_ ,” he is rapidly running out of fingers, “did I forget to mention, it's _dangerous_ \--”

“Yeah, I get it Papa!” She interrupts his diatribe, putting her head on her palms and squishing her cheeks against her curled knuckles. “It's dangerous, Reinhardt already told me that. You think I haven't figured out how _dangerous_ things can get by now?” She uncurls one finger to tap knowingly at her head.

“Yes, and that's precisely why it's better for you _not_ to join!” Torbjörn says emphatically, “You're already an engineer. You could have a good career if you get out there--the Guild is always looking for innovative people to head projects. Why isn't that enough?”

God, she's expected this question. She could wax poetic about the glory of Overwatch, its mission to help the world, the impact it's already had on global peace--but she doesn't. Because really, all her arguments boil down to one, essential truth:

“I feel like I have to do more.”

Her father breathes in a deep breath and let's it out in a whoosh. It's a little louder than a sigh, not quite as vehement as a groan.

“Brigitte…” He speaks her name in a half-sigh that's a blend of fondness and resignation. “Bein’ in Overwatch…it's a lot like bein’ an engineer. People care about the end result, they don't see all the hard work that goes into the designin’, and plannin’ and the execution. They just want it to _work,_ and to _look good_ doin’ it. Same with Overwatch--Jack knew that. We have to work hard, make sure we're keepin’ our toes from crossin’ the line cos when somethin’ goes wrong, _we're_ the ones that are gonna get blamed _first_.” Torbjörn rubs the deep line between his brows, as if to ward off a scowl.

“It's _public relations_ and _bureaucracy_ on top of tryin’ to keep the damn world from tearin’ itself apart! And that's not even mentionin’ how damn unpredictable the missions can be!” His tone explodes back into exasperation before he reigns it in. “What I'm tryin’ to say is, bein’ a part of Overwatch is a lot more than just those stories you grew up hearin’. It paints a big target on your back, bein’ an agent. And I've never wanted that for you.”

She knows what he's saying is true. It reminds her a lot of her feelings about being Reinhardt's squire; a lot more had come with that job than just repairing his armor, but she had learned to adapt to that, too. Impulsively, she reaches out and captures her father's hand. It's warm and dry and tough, just like hers.

“I know, Papa. Really, I do.”

He looks at her, fingers squeezing hers. His prosthetic hand settles over the top of their clasped ones, cold and smooth.

“...I reckon you do, don't you,” he rumbles. Then, a real sigh.

“Well, if you're dead-set on joinin’, I won't stop you. I just want you ta know what you’re gettin’ into, _and_ \--” he squeezes her hands again, “--that you can quit at any time and no one'll condemn you for it.”

She can hardly believe her ears.

“So...you’re okay with it?” she breathes, tamping down on the wild excitement that’s suddenly sparking under her skin.

“Tch... barely.”

“Oh, thank you Papa!” She drops their hands and instead envelopes him in a hug, just barely stopping herself from bouncing up and down on the bed in her giddiness. He returns the embrace, laughing a little at her excitement.

“I’m going to go and talk to Winston!” She says as she breaks the hug and bounds off the bed. She feels like she could sprint the whole way there and not break a sweat, such is the energy filling her. She never thought it would be possible, that he wouldn’t fight her on this.

“You better, if you want to join us for sims tomorrow. And don’t forget, ye still gotta help me with those turrets!” He scolds from the bed, but she can see the smile he’s trying to hide.

  
“I won’t, Papa. Goodnight!” And then she’s gone, positively flying down the hall towards the stairs.

She knows where Winston's lair is. In her casual exploration of the Watchpoint she'd happened upon it, though never set foot inside. It's set apart from the rest of the agent barracks in what looks like might've been a briefing room attached to a CEO's office.

The garage-like main door is open to let in the cool night breeze, and she pauses just outside the doorway, nervous. She's never visited Winston before, and the strangeness of his living situation makes it feel less like she's entering someone's private room and more like she's barging into his house.

“May I assist you?” The cool feminine voice comes from overhead, scaring a surprised squeak out of her.

“A-Athena?” She stammers, trying to calm the racing gallop of her heart.

“Yes. Are you here to see Winston, Brigitte?” It's weird, hearing her name spoken by Athena. Brigitte hadn't even known if Winston's AI knew who she _was_. Her network access had always been under “guest”.

“Um, yeah. Can you get him for me?” she asks.

“There is no need. You are welcome inside, please come in.” The perfect synth-human hostess, Athena lights the room as Brigitte walks inside. The room is large, sprawling, littered sparsely with old chalk boards, maintenance equipment, and even a huge tire hanging from the ceiling. That last one looks like a more recent addition compared to the dangling shell of some kind of old landing shuttle that hangs in the center of the room. Far more eye-catching are the glowing orange projections of the globe that hovers above one table, and the holographic world map that takes up almost the entirety of one wall. There are brilliant points of light dotting the continents, some brighter than others. The word “DECOMMISSIONED” on one corner draws her eye -- are these all the former Watchpoints? Ecopoints? Locations of agents?

“Winston is upstairs, if you would like to speak to him.” Athena interrupts her investigation and indicates a sweep of stairs by illuminating the small, square lights that have been inlaid in every other step. Hastily, Brigitte hurries away from the map, not wanting to be considered nosy. As she ascends, she hears the creak of something heavy shifting, and then the thump of footfalls -- er, fistfalls as Winston knuckles over to meet her.

“Good evening, Brigitte.” He says sounding politely puzzled by her appearance. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Um, kind of, I guess,” she says, folding her hands nervously behind her back. “it's nothing _too_ important but I need to ask you about something.”

“Sure!” he says and beckons her back towards his room with one large hand. “Come in, take a seat.”

She enters what appears to be his private office. In the center a large set of monitors, another enormous tire, a spare computer chair and several empty jars of peanut butter. Winston sweeps the latter into a wastebasket hastily and scoots the rolling chair towards Brigitte, plunks himself in his tire-seat and then hastily jumps out again.

“Oh! Forgive my rudeness. Would you like something to drink? I have water or -- well, just water, actually…” he trails off into a mumble.

“Thanks Winston, but I’m fine,” Brigitte replies, hiding a grin at his embarrassment. It’s kinda cute, how bashful he can be.

“Ah, alright then.” Winston heaves himself into his tire facing her and settles his hands across his stomach. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I want to be a part of Overwatch,” she says confidently.

“Oh, okay,” Winston replies, scratching his cheek, “um, what are your specialties? I know you’re an engineer, like Torbjörn, but he always gave me the impression that you were more...defensively-oriented.”

“Oh! Um…” how would she paraphrase what she does? She didn’t prepare for a question like this! “I guess you would say I’m a lot like Reinhardt...I have a shield, but it’s quite a bit smaller, and I have a mace that has a retractable flail, I mostly use it to corral things though. I’ve basically been a support for Reinhardt. I can fix armor, I design it too, as well as other defensive weaponry...” she’s almost babbling by now, trying to come up with a comprehensive list of things that she can do, “...and, uh...I can maintain a lot of the equipment my father makes, as long as I get a good look at it first or have the blueprints.”

Winston hums thoughtfully, rubbing a finger on his chin. “Well, that certainly sounds like a lot; I think you’d be a valuable addition to the team. Alright, I’ll add you to the roster.” He scoots around in his tire and hunches over his keyboard, beginning to type. He doesn’t ask any more questions, nor does he give any indication that he has anything else to say.

“That’s it?” Brigitte says, a little shocked at how easy this all is, “No paperwork, or fingerprints or like, a background check or a drug test or something?”

“Er...no. We aren’t exactly a business. Besides, if you _were_ a complete unknown Athena and I would have done a deep background check on you before ever extending an offer. I trust that we won’t find anything, uh, _questionable_ on you,” Winston looks over his shoulder at her as if appraising her, then turns back to his keyboard. The heavy click of keys starts up again before he adds, “Just let me get your profile set up and you should be good to login. Was there anything else?”

“Uh...nope, Guess that’s it!” Brigitte sits in her chair, waiting to be dismissed. Winston continues to type for another few minutes, before at last he turns back to her.

“Okay, the first time you log in you’ll need to use a temporary password, I’ve made it 1234. Your agent ID is 3945_52, you’ll see a box the enter that in too. Do you want me to write those down for you?” Winston begins searching on his desk for a pen and paper before Brigitte stops him.

“No, I think I can remember that. 3945_52, 1234. Got it!” She stands up from her chair and begins to head for the door. It’s nice that the process is so uncomplicated. She had really had this whole thing built up in her head. Before she makes it to the top of the stairs she remembers her manners.

“Thanks Winston!” she yells back to him, and then, a beat later, “oh, and you too Athena!”

“You are very welcome, Brigitte.” Athena answers, her voice seeming to come from everywhere. She lights the door for Brigitte to leave, and then bids her good night.

On her way back to her room Brigitte thinks that, with all the fuss both Reinhardt and her Papa had made over it, it was kind of funny that with so little fanfare she has just become the newest member of Overwatch. She can’t wait to tell everyone in the morning!

When she gets back to her room Brigitte’s boots up her desktop, eager to see if anything new shows up. Sure enough, once her home screen appears there is a new icon, shaped like the Overwatch logo. She clicks it and the login screen pops up.

AGENT_ID: _______________

PASSWORD: _______________

She enters the numbers Winston gave her and hits ENTER. As soon as she does she’s prompted to create a new password, which she does. When she logs in a second time she’s got a new home screen. There’s a confidential messaging system, a database of all the current agents, the history of Overwatch, even a news outlet. She’ll definitely need to dig through this...later. Now she’s just tired. Tired, and happy. It’s official now, no turning back.

She’s ready.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter this week, courtesy of my dumb fat fingers. Enjoy!

It is the end of September, a week since Brigitte was accepted as Overwatch’s newest member. Summer is slipping away, the temperatures creeping down and the winds coming off the ocean carry the first chill of fall.

Reinhardt has to admit, Brigitte fits well into the team. How could she not? She’s spent all of her life with two of them and heard stories about most of the others. Lúcio, Lena and she have become fast friends, which is entirely expected. They're all closer in age than any of the other agents, and have many of the same interests. Brigitte’s prior presence at the Watchpoint almost makes her membership seem like a formality; it was inevitable.

He is glad to have her here.

He is less glad at the prospect of her involvement in missions.

It’s no secret that they’ve been training these last few weeks to prepare for what will undoubtedly be a grueling and dangerous mission in Russia. Brigitte joined them in the simulations as soon as she could, and has performed well. She’s mobile, has good team awareness and is adept at call-outs and reading the flow of battle. It took her less than half an hour to figure out the comms, impressive compared to his days-long confusion when he first began. He’s proud, because he expected nothing less from his squire.

He’s also conflicted.

So many warring emotions. It feels right, having her fighting at his side -- where she has been before, where she _should_ be -- yet sometimes, when she slips into his blind spot he has a momentary flash of panic. He turns his head, half-expecting to see her falling to the ground, her face smeared with blood -- but there’s nothing.

It shakes him sometimes. He has to watch her for just a second, to make sure she is alright before he can refocus. It's a weakness he knows he won't be able to afford in a real battle; his attention must always be on the enemy, and how he can protect the team. He must trust his colleagues to protect her when he cannot, and he must trust _her_ to keep herself and everyone else safe.

Still, sometimes his gaze lingers.

They have resumed their normal sparring sessions, despite the growing cold each morning. Angela has cleared Brigitte for regular duty, but even so she had taken Reinhardt aside one morning after breakfast for a private talk. They duck into the med bay, she closing the door behind them.

“I'm going to be frank with you. I do not think it appropriate that Brigitte has joined Overwatch. Nor do I think it right that you dragged her all over the countryside with you on your adventures.” Angela crosses her arms, looking him straight in the eye as she does.

This is news to him. He'd never known what anyone's opinion of their actions had been before, though he has never asked either. Why is she telling him this now?

“Brigitte has made her decision,” he replies, a bit stiffly. “I would have her by my side. She is old enough to choose her path.” Hah, the same words Brigitte had tried to hammer into his head before, and now _he's_ the one using them.

Angela tilts her head, concern written all over her face. One slim finger traces a path on her arm as she replies, “that may be so, but you know as well as I do how dangerous this can be. She is far too young to make this kind of decision!”

Reinhardt thinks he knows where some of her concern comes from. Angela herself was even younger than Brigitte when she entered Overwatch's employ. Is she reflecting upon her own life, trying to spare Brigitte some of the heartache she wish she could have avoided?

“I know, Angela. Believe me, I told her the same thing,” Reinhardt replies, holding both hands out beseechingly, “but I left the decision up to her. She's of age, and I trust that she didn't make the decision lightly. I also trust that we will all do our best to keep _everyone_ safe.”

Angela still doesn't look convinced. Now her fingers are tapping on her crossed arms.

“You _know_ we can't guarantee that.”

He does know.

 _Jack. Gabriel. Liao. Ana._ Countless other agents he had never known, all who they could not save. He will do everything in his power to ensure Brigitte does not end up on that list.

“Angela, you have my word that I will protect her. If I feel a mission is too dangerous, I will suggest that she sit it out, or that she be assigned to a different one. She will listen to me if I insist,” Reinhardt says seriously, taking ahold of Angela’s shoulders and giving them a gentle, emphatic squeeze.

Angela sighs, a bittersweet sound. “You may not have a choice. If we are to go to Russia soon we will need _every_ agent.” She presses her eyes closed for a second, then opens them. Her expression returns to its usual placid warmth.

“I apologize for being so morbid, it was not my intention. I only wished to express my concern,” she unfolds her arms and touches his hand where it rests on her shoulder, “I know you have only her best interest at heart. I just feel that, perhaps she didn't ever _really_ have a choice. Overwatch is in her blood, after all.” Angela opens her door and returns to her desk, leaving Reinhardt with his thoughts.

He is still feeling uncharacteristically melancholy by the time their usual sparring session commences. It is a Tuesday, which means _kali_ training. They're outside practicing on a grassy knoll just north from the cliffs, enjoying the mild, breezy day. He's letting Brigitte practice her strikes, holding tight to a padded block and moving it around so she can vary her strikes, but his mind isn't in it. He's forgotten to move the block three times before she stops hitting.

“Are you alright?” Brigitte asks, panting. “You seem a little out of it.”

“I am fine,” he lies, and Brigitte raises an eyebrow at him. She always knows when he is being untruthful. “Er...I will discuss it with you after practice,” he amends his statement, contrite. It won't do him any good to keep his concerns from her.

“We can talk about it now if it's bothering you that much,” she says, lowering the _kali_.

Now it is his turn to raise an eyebrow at her. “I think you are just using this as an excuse to take a break!” he taunts her, raising the block again. “Come now, show me your strength!”

Brigitte's shoulders square at the challenge, her eyes narrowing in concentration before she's on him like a charging bull. Now his attention is completely on the fight; he has to put some weight behind his hold lest she knock the block clean out of his hands. They take turns holding the padding and switching their strikes before ending with an all-out spar using _kali_ and the blocks as makeshift shields.

Afterwards, cooling off in the kitchen with tall glasses of water she brings it up again.

“You finally ready to talk?” Brigitte asks between gulps.

“Yes.” Reinhardt indicates for them to take a seat at one of the smaller tables in the mess hall. When they do he curls his fingers around his water glass, not completely certain of how to start. Should he mention his talk with Angela? No...it is best to be general.

“I was wondering why you joined Overwatch,” he says, finally.

Evidently this isn't the sort of question Brigitte expected. She stares at him over the rim of her half-raised glass, one eyebrow cocked. She takes a long draft of water before finally speaking.

“Why? I mean, it just made sense,” she says, setting the glass down with a _click_. “I've always wanted to make a difference in the world. Hearing about what you and my father did back then, I think we need that sort of thing now. People willing to take charge and lead in the fight for global peace.”

When she trails off, he decides to lead with his next question. “So, what would you have done if Overwatch had not been recalled?”

She gives him a funny half-smile. “I would have been your squire,” her smile morphs, becoming teasing, “well, until you _retired_.”

“ _Retire?_ ” Reinhardt exclaims, sidetracked. Retiring hasn't even crossed his mind! Is she planning for such an eventuality? “Never! I will fight until my last breath!”

She has hit a sore spot, though he’s loathe to admit it. Retire...it is synonymous with “death” for him. To retire means to give up, and he never gives up. He can still clearly remember Jack and Gabriel taking him aside, telling him it is time for him to hang it up, he's past the age of continued employment, he-

“Well, I guess that's what I would have done ' _until your last breath’,_ then.” Brigitte says, interrupting his thoughts. “And maybe after that I would have taken up your mantle. It's basically what we’re doing in Overwatch, after all.”

She begins tracing a finger through the condensation on her water glass, musing quietly to herself while he sits speechless, processing the words she has just said.

“I don't know if I'd be on the road as often as we have been if I did that...I can't really take my whole workshop with me and there are still plenty of projects I'd want to work on, but maybe every couple weeks-”

“You would carry on my legacy?” He blurts out, unable to stop himself from interrupting her.

Brigitte cocks an eyebrow at him again, finger stilling in its motions. “Of course,” she replies, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

That stuns him back into speechlessness. He can only stare at her, frozen. He is oddly touched, that she considers him and his mission worth preserving. Why, it might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him. He has to take a sip of water to ease the sudden tightness in his throat.

“What’s wrong? You getting sappy on me, tough guy?” Brigitte teases, but there’s no sting in her tone.

“N-no!” Reinhardt stutters, hastily setting his glass down. “I only thought that-that perhaps you might have other plans, if Overwatch had not been an option.” There. He has diverted the conversation back on course.

“No, not really,” she says, “I want to work on some new projects, and travel, and make a difference in the world. This just happens to combine all three.” A wry grin curls at the corner of her mouth. “And the things Overwatch has done did sound pretty badass.” The grin fades as her brows knit in an expression of dawning comprehension. “Wait...is that what this is about? You’re worried I was like, _brainwashed_ into choosing Overwatch or something?”

Clever girl. Too clever for him to succeed with this roundabout questioning, anyway. “Eh, or something...” he says evasively. He had gotten his answer anyway. This is a path she would have taken without his influence.

Brigitte gets up from the table and walks around to him, gathering their nearly-empty glasses and taking them to the kitchen. On her way, she bumps him playfully with her hip.

“You're silly sometimes, you know?” She calls over her shoulder, loading their glasses into the dishwasher.

“Silly? _Me?_ ” It had been Angela's idea, not his!

“Yeah, you. But that's alright, I still like you.” Brigitte saunters out the mess hall doors, casting a look over her shoulder that clearly indicates that he should follow.

“I have been called many things in my life, but never silly!” Reinhardt intones gravely, following her.

They continue bantering back and forth the rest of the day, with Brigitte trying to rope the rest of the agents into giving an opinion on whether they believe Reinhardt to be silly while he tries to assert his position that it is _she_ who is prone to ridiculousness, not he.

Their little feud is interrupted just after dinner, when they are cleaning the kitchen. Everyone is helping to wash their dishes, wipe the tables and pack up the leftovers when the faintest click of metal on stone alerts them to the presence of another.

“Good evening,” Genji says as he walks into the mess hall. The cyborg has returned just as suddenly as he left, like a stray cat coming home.

“Genji!” Angela and Lena exclaim, darting for his arms.

“I’m so glad you’re finally back!” Lena exclaims, giving him a quick squeeze.

“How were your travels?” Angela asks, inspecting the cyborg as if looking for hints of wear and tear. Reinhardt notices that Winston, who had been wiping tables down has one finger pressed to the headset that covers his ear. He is frowning.

“The journey was long, but I deem it a success,” Genji says simply. “I have brought along my master, who very much wishes to meet you.”

“Really?” Angela looks around. There is no one else accompanying him, nor anyone in the hall. “Where is he?”

“Is he the one waiting at the gate, then?” Winston lumbers over to Genji, eyeing him intently. “Or is he the one Athena caught a glimpse of climbing the cliffs?”

Ah, that must be it. Athena has alerted Winston to the presence of an intruder. But wait, only one can be Genji’s master. Who is the other?

Reinhardt begins to frown himself, uncertain of the unknowns now presenting themselves.

“My master waits at the gate, he wishes to be respectful of our privacy. He seeks permission to enter the Watchpoint.” Genji nods to Winston, almost apologetically. “The other must be my brother. I was wondering when he would show himself.”

“Your brother is here?” Reinhardt asks, drying his hands and going over to meet Genji as well. “Why is he skulking about like a thief? It is dishonorable to hide yourself from those you would call your allies!”

“ _Gomen-nasai_ ,” Genji inclines his head again, clasping his hands and bowing to them all. “As I said before, my brother and I were raised by the _Shimada-gumi_ , a family of assassins. A straightforward approach is foreign to us, especially to Hanzo who has been hunted ever since he rejected his birthright. He is suspicious by nature. I beg that you forgive his rudeness.”

Genji’s plea is heartfelt, and rings true to Reinhardt’s ears. He is certain that his friend is not lying about his past or the history of himself and his brother, but still he feels wary. He will need to meet this Hanzo Shimada before he can make any judgement.

Apparently Winston feels the same. “Well, we’ll see,” he snorts, and leads the way towards the hidden entrance in the garage where Genji’s master awaits.

They go en-mass to the hangar, the women and Winston leading while Reinhardt brings up the rear with Torbjörn and McCree. They walk through the great stone tunnel that connects the garage to the road outside. It’s barred by a heavy blast door that retracts into the ground when the appropriate code is entered into its keypad, and when it does Genji’s master is illuminated.

They all stare in stunned silence. Reinhardt can’t decide what is more surprising; the fact that Genji’s master is hovering two feet off the ground, or the fact that he is an _omnic._

The omnic floats soundlessly a few feet from the front gate. The sun is setting, burning red-gold against the omnic's silver plating. It's scrawny, just the bare bones of a form wearing long pants the color of dark straw and a rusty red sash like a loincloth. Both items look rough, thick like burlap and possibly hand-sewn. Nine dots glow robins-egg blue on its forehead, a three-by-three grid of lights just above its slit-like eyes. Eight large orbs hang suspended, floating like a necklace of fat golden prayer beads just above its shoulders.

“Peace and blessings unto you all.” The omnic speaks for the first time, its voice a deep, melodious hum that is unmistakably masculine. It -- or, _he_ spreads his hands open, palms up, nonthreatening as if to welcome them into an embrace. “I thank you for coming so quickly to greet me. Genji, would you be so kind as to introduce me to your friends?” The omnic seems to be the only one able to react to the situation, everyone else too stunned to move.

Genji scampers to his master’s side. “I would like to introduce my master, Tekhartha Zenyatta!” he says proudly, gesturing with one hand to the floating omnic. “He is a former monk of the Shambali monastery. I encountered him during my travels after Overwatch was disbanded and he became my teacher, and a good friend. Master,” he begins to point at each of them in turn with the other hand, “this is Winston, who was part of the-”

He goes down the line, introducing them all. As he says each name it’s as if they are released from a spell, able to move again. When he introduces Reinhardt, Reinhardt is unsure of how to react. No one else has moved to shake Zenyatta’s hand, or otherwise exchange a greeting but it feels strange for him not to, so he moves forward and extends his hand. The omnic takes it, exerting gentle pressure as Reinhardt squeezes in return. The omnic’s fingers are cool, but not cold; metal warmed slightly by some other energy.

As Genji continues down the line, Reinhardt thinks. The Shambali monks, yes...he has heard that name before. And Zenyatta's name bears a close resemblance to the slain omnic activist's, Tekhartha Mondatta. Hadn't Mondatta founded the order of the Shambali monks? If so, that would mean this omnic was a pupil of his. Most interesting.

Having finally been introduced, the group is no longer frozen, yet they remain uncertain as to what to do next. It is Winston who speaks up first.

“So, um, Zenyatta...did you want to join Overwatch? Is that why Genji brought you here?”

Zenyatta tilts his head slightly, hands resting loosely in his lap. “I did not come to join, merely to offer what I can to any who need counsel.” He straightens his gaze again, looking at them each in turn with those strange slits that are his eyes. “I would be grateful to spend some time here, learning from you if I may.”

Everyone looks to Winston. Like it or not, he is considered their commander now and all approvals or denials come from him. He seems flustered by the sudden attention, stumbling over his response.

“W-well, um, the thing is, uh…” his eyes dart rapidly from side to side as he searches for a response, “it's, uh, not simply a matter of just _entering_ our private base. We have protocols to ensure that everyone coming here is not a danger to us.” He seems to has found his rhythm, straightening up as his speech becomes more confident. “I know that Genji vouches for you, but if you'll permit me to run a few diagnostic tests I'll be able to okay you for at least guest-level clearance.”

Zenyatta inclines his head, “Of course. I do not wish to be a source of disharmony among you.” The omnic tilts his face up slightly, as if gazing to the heavens. “And it would seem that I am not the only one who seeks your approval. Genji?”

“Brother, come out,” Genji says, exasperated. “They know that you are here. Do not be rude.”

Out of the shadows overhead a man drops straight down next to Genji, landing whisper-soft onto the grass. He straightens, turning to face the cyborg.

“Do not presume to lecture me on manners.” The stranger's voice is a quiet, husky rasp; low, but sharp in its rebuke. The man angles his body between Genji and the onlookers, his posture alert. This must be Hanzo, the brother Genji spoke of.

Reinhardt's first impression is that he is very short. The second, that he looks every inch a deadly warrior. He is lithe, compact, not an inch of fat covering his sinewy muscles; a whipcord leanness that speaks of many long, hungry days.  His legs, Reinhardt can see are covered in dark, sleek metal similar to Genji's, armoring that ends at the knee.

He has never seen a man who looks as Hanzo does; his attire is completely foreign. He wears all black, befitting of an assassin. His top exposes the whole of his left arm and half his chest, revealing the tattooed blue body of a dragon that snakes its way down his arm to his hand. There is a bow strapped to his back along with a quiver full of arrows, his belt is weighed down with leather pouches of equipment and even a drinking gourd. All of these things together give him the appearance of a warrior, but Reinhardt knows that more than clothes make a man. It is in his _eyes_.

Reinhardt isn't sure if he likes the look in those eyes. They are almond-shaped, dark brown and they move ceaselessly, roaming over each agent in turn as if inspecting them for flaws. Hanzo is searching for weakness, and when his eyes meet Reinhardt's the knight does not blink, but stares unflinchingly into that sharp gaze. Perhaps it increases Hanzo's estimation of him, because he spends an extra second looking Reinhardt over.

Reinhardt knows he cuts an impressive figure.

“Hanzo, introduce yourself!” Genji nudges his brother's shoulder with his own, and Hanzo flinches away from the touch irritably. He hisses something in Japanese at Genji, who responds in kind. Hanzo notes the omnic floating on the other side of Genji, and mutters again. This turns into a back-and-forth argument that Reinhardt cannot understand, but he doesn't need to speak Japanese to be able to read their tone. Hanzo is voicing his displeasure, perhaps at them, perhaps at the omnic -- and Genji is defending. The ninja doesn't sound perturbed by his brother's snarls, rather he sounds almost amused. He cuts off the argument with a wave of one hand.

“This is my brother, Hanzo Shimada. I spoke of him earlier, if you recall,” Genji launches into his introduction hastily, as though to ward off another argument, “and, as you have already heard everyone introduced, I do not think I need to repeat myself.” He says the last bit towards Hanzo, clearly implying that the archer had been listening in to their earlier introduction to Zenyatta. Had perhaps been perched on the rocks overhead the blast doors, just out of sight.

There's an uneasy murmur of hello's from the group, and Reinhardt again moves forward towards the newest face and extends his hand in greeting. From the knit of the archer's brow he half-expects his handshake to be rejected, but Hanzo gives a perfunctory shake and the smallest of nods.

Reinhardt knows the measure of a man can be taken by his handshake. He reads Hanzo by the rough calluses of his palms, the strength of his grip, and the quickness of his withdrawal. He sees a man who life has tempered into a weapon; steelier than any omnic, as sharp as a blade. But respectable, perhaps even honorable.

Reinhardt’s wariness of Hanzo drops enough for him to give Winston an approving look; _he is not a threat_ . Winston gives him a look right back; _I know_.

So, Winston already had checked up on Hanzo; he should have guessed. Nothing is beneath the scientist's careful scrutiny.

“So, you're the one who's been evading my drones,” Winston says mildly.

“Yes,” Hanzo almost barks the words, completely unrepentant. “The security around this rock is laughable. You underestimate the abilities of anyone who would come here to harm you.” His tone cuts through them, haughty, bordering on scolding.

“Well, if you'd be interested perhaps we could discuss improvements.” Winston says, only the faintest thread of his frustration wearing through. He is being remarkably gracious.

 _He must have taken a few lessons out of Jack's book._ Winston is far more suited for diplomacy than Reinhardt is. The archer may be respectable, but Reinhardt doesn't think he'd be able to tolerate being spoken to in that tone for very long. It seems that Hanzo thinks that _they_ will have to earn _his_ respect.

Hanzo says nothing to Winston's suggestion, merely hums a non-committal “ _Hn.”_

“S-shall we go back inside?” Angela says, her voice trembling slightly with cold. Reinhardt looks around to see her, Lena and Lúcio all huddled close together. The weather, though pleasant during the day has become unseasonably cold as night falls and none of them are wearing jackets.

Reinhardt gathers them before him like baby chicks and herds them back inside, followed by Winston and then Genji's company. They diverge once within; Winston leading Zenyatta, Genji and a reluctant Hanzo towards his studio while the others return towards their rooms. They're almost to the barracks when Lena peels off from the group with the intention of assisting Winston.

Brigitte follows Reinhardt down the hall, bypassing her own room. When he opens his door she slips inside and throws herself on the bed, tucking herself under his navy-blue sherpa blanket.

“So, what do you think about the new guys?” She asks conversationally, as though she is not hogging over half the mattress.

Reinhardt flops down heavily next to her, jolting her into tipping towards the depression his weight creates. She takes the hint, scooting over so he has room to fold his arms behind his head.

“I think…” he starts, and then pauses because he isn't sure _what_ to think yet. “...that the omnic seems a pleasant fellow.”

“Yeah, I liked him too,” Brigitte acknowledges, leaning over him to steal one of his pillows, “though I thought Papa was going to blow a gasket when he saw him! You know how he feels about omnics.”

Yes, Reinhardt does know. It is hardly surprising that Torbjörn distrusts them so; having designed so many of them in the past, he more than any other agent understands their capabilities for destruction. It is a small wonder that with his history that Reinhardt does not feel the same way; but if what Zenyatta said was true, the former monk is an oddity, even among omnics. A devotee of the Iris.

“I dunno how I feel about Hanzo yet,” Brigitte continues, “he seemed kinda...standoffish. It doesn't seem like he thinks very highly of us.”

“Yes, a man who can evade Athena's drones and your father's turrets for weeks surely has very high standards,” Reinhardt half-jokes. He wonders if Hanzo will want to join in their training simulations -- he would like to see the man put to the test. If he is as skilled with his bow as Genji is with his blade, he could be a formidable addition to the team. Not only that, a long-range specialist is something they sorely need.

“Well, we'll show him!” Brigitte declares.

Silence falls in the wake of her proclamation, heavy, yet comfortable. The long day and tough training sessions are taking their toll on Reinhardt; it is scarcely eight, and already he feels the pull of sleep. His eyelids are heavy weights; he lets them fall closed for just a moment. He only wants to give his eyes a rest.

Brigitte is saying something again, but the words are distant, distorted; fish lazily swimming through dark waters. His bed is very comfortable.

Reinhardt dreams of long days on the road and even longer nights camping in the German countryside, young and carefree. Laying in the bed of his father's pickup, staring into a black sky littered with stars; numerous and endless as his possibilities. He can feel wild joy surging in his heart as he gazes up, galvanized by the knowledge that he can do _anything_ , if only he reaches out to seize the opportunity...

When he wakes an indeterminable time later, Brigitte is gone, the light is out and he is tucked beneath his blanket.

 

\---

 

Wednesday dawns cool and overcast. Winston moved their weekly meeting to the morning, as unseasonable thunderstorms are predicted for the latter half of the day and nobody wants to run to and from the briefing room through a deluge. Reinhardt takes the extra time to try his hand at making scones -- warm bread this morning sounds heavenly.

They sit around the great black table, slathering jam, butter and honey on their breakfast as Winston lays out the matters for discussion today.

“Alright, first order of business: Torbjörn, I've spoken with Hanzo and identified a few blind spots in our current defense setup. I'm adding more drone paths and upgrading the flight range to cover more area, especially the cliff sides. He pointed out a few places that you could add more turrets; I've marked them on Athena's map and I'll forward it to you. Maybe we can take a look outside before the rain starts today.”

Torbjörn nods, mouth too full to reply.

Winston taps his pad and pushed his glasses up. “Second, I've want to try running a few different sim types starting this afternoon. I'm hoping to mimic some of the conditions we could come across in Russia. We'll divide into smaller teams and take turns running them blindly -- I want to see how mixing the team comp fares. With Genji back I think we'll be able to make an even split.” Winston taps his pad again, then pauses to scarf a mouthful of scone, showering the table with crumbs.

“Last--mm--order of business,” he says, brushing the crumbs to the floor, “Russia.”

Russia.

Constantly it is a topic of conversation, and every week the results are the same. They discuss the latest developments (more deaths) what they can do about it (nothing, yet) and the communications Winston has received from Zarya, their contact in Russia (frustratingly few).

“So, not much has changed since last week. Sergeant Zarya says that the RDF is still reluctant to let Overwatch intervene, though she's been unable to discover why.”

Reinhardt can't hold back his frustrated sigh, and he's not the only one.

“C'mon, does it really matter _why?”_ Lena says urgently, “People are dying down there! We need to _do_ something!” She slaps her palms on the table to emphasize the point.

Reinhardt agrees. Just yesterday news had come off another omnic attack, resulting in 34 deaths and 78 wounded. With no end in sight, the body count is sure to reach the 50,000 mark before the end of the year.

Winston sighs heavily. “I know, Lena. I wish we could. You know why we can't though; we're crossing a line operating as it is. If we intervene in a country without their express permission, we're liable to all wind up in jail for a long, long time.”

“That is only if they catch us,” Genji interjects cheerfully.

“Yeah!” Lúcio whoops, “I'd like to see them try!” He raises a fist in the air, pumping it as he hoots: “Can’t touch thiiiiiis!”

“Now, now,” Winston holds out his hands, as if to contain their burgeoning emotions, “we have to do things by the book, at least to start. There's a good chance that if all goes well in Russia, we could get the Petras act revoked, or at least lay the groundwork for a consideration. Then we wouldn't be so constrained.”

“Y'know what _I_ wanna know?” McCree interjects, changing the subject, “Why they ain't just blown the whole operation up. Don't they got the firepower t'do it?”

“ _I'll_ tell ya why,” Torbjörn answers him, “it's cos those omniums are run on _fission cores_. You blow the place t’smithereens and you’re gonna have a heck of a lot of nuclear fallout on your hands.”

“Oh,” The cowboy replies, looking nonplussed, “yeah, that’d be pretty bad.” He slumps back his seat, chewing his lip.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Winston says, trying to get them back on track, “the point is, we’re currently at a standstill. The best we can do is prepare everything on our end so that when they need us, we’ll be ready.”

Reinhardt is displeased with this “sit back and wait” approach. It is just not his style, and he has to voice his opinion.

“Will there ever be a moment when we decide that we _cannot_ stand by and do nothing?” he asks Winston, resting his elbows on the table and clasping hands together. “How many more will have to die before someone decides to do something?”

Winston looks at him, and he can see in those dark eyes the same thoughts that plague him. “We won’t stand by forever, I promise,” the scientist swears, “when the moment comes that we’re needed, we’ll go, Petras act or no.”

Reinhardt wishes more than anything that he knew when that moment would come. He does not want to see something terrible happen, with them arriving too late to stop it. It feels like King’s Row all over again.

The meeting is dismissed, with nothing more to add on the depressing subject. Afterwards Reinhardt takes Winston aside.

“May I contact Sergeant Zarya?” he asks, “I was once a military man. Perhaps I can give her the words to get through to her superiors.”

Winston gives him an appraising look. “Well, it can’t hurt. I’ll forward you her information, just let me know if you make any headway.”

The rest of the day outside of sims and cooking is spent trying to craft his first email to Zarya. What should he say? Should he lay out everything that he’s thinking, to prove total transparency? He doesn’t know anything about her, or the best way to speak to her.

On a whim he searches her on the net. It is unlikely that a common soldier would appear in any news articles, excepting an act of heroism --

\--but there she is.

Reinhardt isn’t sure how many Aleksandra Zaryanova’s there are in the Russian Defense Forces, but just looking at the woman in the picture that appears he feels this _must_ be her.

The picture in question is in fact the front page of a magazine; dominating the spread is the bearlike figure of a woman. It could just be the lighting used in the photoshoot, but somehow Reinhardt doubts it. Those bulging muscles, barely contained by a red and gold leotard must be _real_. She stares out from the backsplash of the magazine, a handsome woman with long blonde hair tied in a ponytail.

The article is all in Russian, and he runs it through a translator to read:

“WEIGHTLIFTING CHAMP TRADES IN MEDALS FOR MILITIA”

_Aleksandra Zaryanova, 28, known for her 2073 and 2074 sweep of the Women’s National Weightlifting Championships has announced that she is retiring from weightlifting in the wake of trouble on the Russian Front. Aleksandra, who is originally from -_

Reinhardt skims the rest of the article, which mostly expounds upon Zarya’s many weightlifting medals and achievements, as well as her workout routine. It hardly mentions her role in the RDF, which isn’t very helpful, but then again the article is almost a year old. Either way the article has helped; he has gained an appreciation for this soldier who appears to be a woman after his own heart. If there were to be a soldier contacting Overwatch in defiance of the RDF, he feels it would be her.

He sits at his desk typing up his email carefully. It’s short and to the point, but he has labored hard over every word. The fruit of his labor reads:

_Greetings Sergeant Zaryanova,_

_I am Reinhardt Wilhelm, former Lieutenant of the Crusaders and a current agent of Overwatch. I write to you because the situation of your people weighs heavily on me. I understand from Winston that as of yet, the Russian Defense Forces are unwilling to accept our help. I would like to plead with whoever will listen to reason: let us do what we can, before more lives are lost. I know too well the great sacrifices your people have made during the Omnic Crisis, as Germany made many of the same. What is happening now bears a great resemblance to the events of the King’s Row Uprising, where a great number of people could have been saved if action were taken sooner. If we work together I believe we can prevent a repeat of that devastation. If you feel it is an issue of communication with senior staff, I may be of some assistance._

_Yours in service,_

_\- Reinhardt Wilhelm_

_P.S. What is your Wilks score?_

Reinhardt sends it off before he can second-guess himself and delete the whole thing. Then he goes to the kitchen and grabs a few cold beers to enjoy as he winds down for the night. The gloomy weather has put him in a mood for a movie, something good and sappy like _The Notebook;_ a melancholy film always pairs well with a dreary night.

He invites Brigitte over under the pretense of enjoying some _Schneider Weisses,_ and then starts playing the movie before she can protest. It doesn’t stop her complaints, but she’s already ensconced in his blanket again and protests that she’s too comfortable to get up. Just as well, because he has no intention of switching movies. They drink and watch until this time it is Brigitte who falls asleep, her bottle tipping perilously in her lax grip.

Reinhardt affords her the courtesy of carrying her back to her room, even giving up his blanket for the night so as not to disturb her slumber.  

He really should invest in a second blanket.


	17. Chapter 17

After their last disappointing meeting Brigitte thinks that everyone is feeling frustrated. They watch the news, only to feel disgusted at the complete lack of action from any other nations. They train, hoping to burn off some of the excess frustration and hone their teamwork.

Winston seems to have taken “preparing for an eventual intervention” seriously, because with Genji now back on the team, simulations crank into overdrive.

Brigitte hadn't realized how badly they needed another attack specialist until that first sim after his arrival. Genji rounds out their offense, turning them from an efficient team into a well-oiled _machine_ . She has never seen anything like Genji in action -- his skill is another thing she thought Reinhardt might have been exaggerating -- but after seeing him parry countless projectiles, scale walls, spring lightly over the heads of 'bots and down tens more with a hail of shuriken she's convinced; he's an honest-to-God _ninja_.

More than once in the first couple runs with him she's been hit by 'bot fire, distracted by watching him dart and dash like across the battlefield. Gradually she became used to it, only noticing him when he dives behind her shield for cover between salvos.

While she has gotten used to Genji, his guests are another story. She hardly ever sees Hanzo; the archer does not join them for meals, though she and Reinhardt save back a plate for him each time. If he has been given quarters within the Watchpoint she doesn't know where they are, she never sees him coming or going from a room. Glimpses of him are rare, he moves like a wraith among them. Sometimes she catches the tail of his golden ribbon whipping around a corner, or spies a slim gunmetal heel disappearing through a door. Most often she will spy a pale face watching them through the window during sims, but he's gone by the time they finish.

Zenyatta is much more apparent. The omnic does join them for meals, though of course he doesn't eat. He floats amid the conversation, saying little but watching them with what Brigitte thinks could be a placid smile. Some mornings when she and Reinhardt are sparring, she catches a glimpse of him and Genji sitting together on a far-off cliff, watching the gulls rise and fall on the morning breeze.

She still isn't sure what to make of the omnic. He's engaged her once or twice in conversation, learning far more from her than she gleans from him. He's pleasant enough, but almost as enigmatic as Hanzo. Zenyatta does not stay to watch their simulations.

Life falls back into a routine on the Watchpoint. Two weeks pass, bringing them to mid-October. The temperature is plummeting, the days becoming shorter and soon it is too chilly for them to spar outside in the mornings. The green of the grass is fading toward dormancy, ridging the cliffs in sparse brown tufts. The sky, once a vibrant blue, tends toward a steely gray. Reinhardt reminisces about how years ago winters scarcely fell below 60 and he could sunbathe year-round.

Brigitte wonders if these weather anomalies are spurred by the one Mei has been studying, and then she wonders how the climatologist is faring. There's been no word from her since Winston's announcement.

It's been ten weeks since Winston's recall and a month since she's joined Overwatch. Days at the Watchpoint are enjoyable, filled with food, hard work and great companionship. Despite this she feels stuck -- chomping at the bit to do _something_. She knows that everyone else feels the same, but they're doing a better job of hiding it than she is.

Brigitte throws herself into her projects, setting her sights on something ambitious so she has something to do with all this spare energy. It's going to be a surprise for Reinhardt; she's trying to construct a completely new set of Crusader armor, inlaid with the newest version of particle field generators that will project an energy field around the whole of his body. She's consults with her father on the best way to construct the armor; she wants to recess all the generators, which will doubtless introduce flaws into the metal unless strategically planned. She spends so much time in the workshop that Reinhardt begins to notice and come by, so she cuts back and tries to find other things to occupy the hours.

One day Lúcio tries to teach her some basic DJing, much to the amusement of anyone who walks by his partially-open door.

“No, no, not like that!” Lúcio shakes his head, dreads flying as she removes her hand from the vinyl emulator. She's just finished her third attempt at “scratching” to one of his tracks, and it hadn't sounded much better than the first two attempts.

“You have to give yourself to the rhythm!” Lúcio insists, queuing up another track, “And right now you're resisting. Here-” he places his hand over the top of hers, one finger tapping slightly to the beat as the old song fades into the new, “-can you feel that?”

The new track has a bass pulse, deep enough that it thrums through her chest. She nods, knowing what he'll say next. She has to “feel the beat, and then use it as a springboard to time her scratches”; she's tried that though, she really has. The problem is that when she gets going she has a tendency to forget to keep track of the rhythm.

“Lemme try and put it a different way,” he says, head bobbing thoughtfully along the the music, “think about it like -- it's a fight. The beat is the other guy's hits-” he uses his free hand to pantomime a punching fist “-and you gotta react with a block.” He presses his fingers down on hers and pulls back on the faux-vinyl just as the beat drops again, producing a scratch just after each pulse. He continues until she takes the hint and begins trying to time it on her own.

“Once you get the hang of blocking his normal punches, it gets too easy right? Then you mix it up, throw a few of your own and a roundhouse kick when he's least expecting it,” Lúcio's fingers take over again, pulling the record in a series of scratches that dance around the bass in a jagged counter-rhythm, “see?”

“I think I do,” she says, and means it. It's a headspace, one she finds herself in nearing the end of sparring. Where each block and hit have become so instinctive, it's more like a dance than a fight.

She begins again, scratching first on the off-beat, as he had done. Once she gets that under her fingers she tries some more complicated scrubs, unconsciously nodding her head to the beat to keep in time.

“Yeah, now you're getting it!” Lúcio encourages, and brings his right hand around to rest on hers where it sits curled on top of his mixer. “And when you got that, then you can really play around!” He manipulates her fingers so that they move up and down the sliders, introducing new and vibrant overtones that blend with the melody. It takes all her concentration to keep scratching with her left hand, so much that she doesn't even notice the door being pushed open behind them.

“Well, don't this just beat all?”

McCree's voice is a warm, indistinct rumble. Lúcio hastily jums away from her and turns down the volume; Brigitte hadn't realized how loud they were being until just then.

“Sorry, what?” She says, turning to face him. Next to her Lúcio edges away, the faintest hint if color darkening his cheeks. Is he embarrassed that they were being so noisy?

“Oh, nothin’. Just checkin’ to see what all the ruckus was.” The gunslinger grins wryly at them, thumbs tucked into his belt loops. “Think I c'n give that a try?”

McCree is, if possible, even worse than her. She tries to stifle her giggles at the attempt, but when he starts pushing random sound effect buttons she _and_ Lúcio lose it.

“Man, I should take you on tour with me,” Lúcio snickers as McCree sets off a series of explosion sounds, “you can open for one of my concerts!”

“Hey! What about me?” Brigitte says, feigning a pout at being left out.

“Fine, you can come too. You can be his backup dancer!”

McCree laughs as she puts Lúcio in a headlock, the shorter man unable to squirm out of her grip as she musses his hair. She only sets him free when he apologizes profusely, and when a loud _ping_ interrupts the flow of music.

“Oh, that'll be an email.” Lúcio reaches across McCree for his holopad and logs into his profile while Brigitte watches curiously. She didn't know it was possible to link the two; she'd be a lot better about checking her own email if she did that…

“Winston's calling another meeting tonight “ Lúcio says, scrolling quickly through the message, “Regarding the recall and former agents of Overwatch...and he says expect it to be longer than the last few meetings. Tonight, 6:30.”

Another meeting? For it to come so soon after the last one it has to be something pretty important. Doubly so if he’s calling it with less than a day’s warning. Are they perhaps going to get an influx of veterans from before?

McCree groans. “Aw man, another meetin’? Them things'r duller’n ditchwater. ”

Brigitte checks her watch -- about 40 minutes til sims start at 2, then dinner and the meeting. That means there won’t be any time after dinner for her to work in the shop; she’ll have to try to squeeze any work in now.

“Sorry guys, gotta go!” She waves an abrupt goodbye and beats a hasty retreat to the workshop. There she fiddles with the rough plans for Reinhardt's new armor; having neither the materials to cast it yet (she should really figure out how she's going to get those) nor the perfect solution to her problem. Recesses in the armor…

She sketches a few shapes, trying to come up with an idea. The weakest points of armor are usually the joints, where they pieces come together. Those also are the places she does _not_ want put the generators, as the particle fields will naturally assume a planar shape once active, and having a constantly-moving base will distorted and possibly break the field. The best shape for armor she's come up with so far is so terribly _block_ y, like fighting clad in cardboard boxes.

She fights with the design until five minutes til, and then heads to the second range for sims. Today they're supposed to be working on a larger-scale bot assault, with the goal of working as two smaller teams approaching a central spawn point.

As she hurtles down the two flights of stairs that lead to the landing of the ranges, she swings around the last corner and almost smacks straight into Hanzo.

“Oh!” Brigitte blurts in surprise, twisting around so that she can avoid him. She grabs for the stair rail, nearly pulling her shoulder out of it’s socket just to avoid a fall.

“Sorry….uh,” she sputters, unsure of what to call him. Mr. Shimada? Hanzo? Isn’t there some formality of address in Japanese society? She turns her uncertainty into an apology instead. “Didn’t mean to almost run you over.”

“It would do you well to be more cautious when wearing that much armor,” he rebukes in a regal rasp. Even though he's shorter than her he somehow manages to make her feel small.

“Yeah, sorry!” She forces herself to sound cheerfully apologetic instead of pissed off. “Just running late for sims.”

Hanzo breathes a _hn_ , turns away and begins to head up the stairs.

“You know, you could join us if you want. We could always use a sniper,” Brigitte says to his retreating back. She’s not sure what’s possessed her to say it. Maybe the fact that she wants him to _know_ she’s seen him watching them, or the desire to throw him for a loop. It could be her impression of Genji; if one brother was so skilled, surely the other is too.

His step falters for just a second, but he continues on his way.

Hanzo doesn't look in on them practicing that day.

 

***

 

Dinner is a Tex-mex concoction of McCree’s design, and Reinhardt’s execution. They take the finished product to their war room to make the meeting a little more palatable, though as soon as she goes to take her first bite, Brigitte drips salsa onto her lap.

Customarily Winston will consult his pad, open with the topics of discussion and then go down the list. Today, he doesn’t even have his pad out. He hasn’t taken a plate either; instead he sits with his hands folded on the table, looking serious.

“So, I'm sorry for springing this meeting on you all with such short notice,” he says. “Normally I would wait until next week, but Athena and I have discovered something I think warrants some attention.”

“As you know, when I sent the recall out I sent the message to all former members of Overwatch. I didn't expect that everyone would answer. That being said, the number of agents who have acknowledged the call has been far lower than what I predicted.”

Winston presses the button of a remote that Brigitte hadn't noticed clutched in his massive hand. In the center of the table a holo-surface is projected, showing percentages, trend lines and even pie chart.

Brigitte goggles; this sort of detailed analysis is something she can barely make sense of. A quick glance over at Reinhardt has him not even looking at the data points, just watching Winston. This must be a regular thing then.

“Including everyone her who answered the recall as well as Mei, it accounts for approximately 5.6% of all former agents who have acknowledged the message.” Winston is in full-on lecture mode now, using a laser pointer to point out a pie chart.

“Based on the time between the last contact with members as well as the speed and frequency at which you all answered, I predicted that anywhere between 50-70% of former agents would respond in one form or another. Even just to decline participation. However, this number is astonishingly low.”

Brigitte had been wondering why there were no other agents about. The number of Watchpoints there were, combined with what she knew of Overwatch’s previous missions made it sound like their numbers had been in the hundreds.

“As you know, what prompted me to send out the recall was the attack here. Talon agents attempted to steal sensitive data from Athena’s servers; they were after the locations and identities of the agents. I was able to stop them from stealing everything, but unfortunately they still managed to obtain a portion.”

Winston clicks the remote again, and this time the data charts flicker away to turn into an array of digital news clippings. The text on them is too small for her to read from here, but one of them looks suspiciously like an obituary.

“I can only think that there’s one reason that Talon would want this information. It’s taken some time, but Athena and I have tried to track down all the members whose information was stolen. Of them, over a quarter have...they’ve…” Winston’s voice, which up until now has been formal, if not a little aloof starts to change. Brigitte can hear the heavy tremor of emotion; it raises the hair on the back of her neck. She feels a strange wave of dread.

“They’ve...well, they’ve either disappeared, or been killed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, y'all! 
> 
> I'll probably have a two-week hiatus before the next chapter is posted, this week begins the Overwatch Archives event which I'll be playing pretty much every moment I get, trying to grind out the Legendary victories. 
> 
> If anyone wants to play, I'm on PC. Battletag is MrLegato#1284


	18. Chapter 18

_“They’ve...well, they’ve either disappeared, or been killed.”_

Winston’s words slam Reinhardt like a physical blow.

_Disappeared? Killed?_

For a moment the world changes, becoming strange, unreal. Like waking up to find himself miles underwater. The voices of his teammates drift through him, like the slow roll of thunder.

“What? No!” Lena exclaims, distraught while next to him Brigitte drops her taco onto her lap.

“Who has disappeared?” Angela asks urgently, leaning forward.

Winston clicks his remote, and one of the news clippings enlarges so that they can read the heading:

“SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING MARICOPA WOMAN”

“This I found just this morning,” Winston indicates the screen with the laser pointer, and Reinhardt can see the minute jitter of the red dot as Winston’s hand quivers. “It’s Kiera Silvers. She’s been missing for a week now.” He clicks the remote again, bringing up the next clipping.

“MAN KILLED IN POSSIBLE GANG-RELATED SHOOTING”

The smiling face of an olive-skinned, dark-haired man fills the screen, vibrant and happy. He’s got his arm slung around a pretty woman, and in the other arm a chubby wavy-haired child leans against him.

“This one is from three weeks ago. Piero Moretti, shot at close range with what is believed to be a shotgun. Obviously the work of the Reaper.”

He clicks the remote again. This time the article isn’t in English, but it doesn’t need to be. Reinhardt recognizes the picture instantly. A woman, dark-skinned but with shoulder-length curly blonde hair. The last time he saw her, she had swept by him in the hallway on her way back to her rooms. Her team had just returned from a devastation mission in Poland.

That had been the mission he had lost Ana.

“This is from a news site in Kampala. It describes a missing Ugandan woman, who some of you may recognize as Mirembe. She disappeared five weeks ago.”

Winston taps the remote again, returning the news clippings to miniature size.

“There are at least two more that I know of. In total three dead, two missing,” Winston removes his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. He breathes in deeply before continuing. “Of these five, the ones who have gone missing are all women, while the men have been killed. I’m...not sure what to make of it.”

Reinhardt doesn’t know what to make of it either. It is too much. He’s returning to himself, the unreality fading.

“No…” Lena breathes, her voice nearly a sob.

Around the table, no one speaks for a moment, paralyzed by the horror of it. Eventually, it is Torbjörn who breaks the silence.

“So, they’re goin’ around takin’ out everyone on their list. Do you know any of the other names they managed to get so we can warn 'em?” he asks, pushing his plate aside so he can rest an arm on the table.

Winston replaces his glasses. “Yes. I was able to go through the sectors of Athena's server that Talon’s worm hacked into and extract the corrupted data. I have a list of sixteen agents whose identities were recovered.” He taps his pad and scrolls, as if going down a list.

“Well? Have you warned 'em?!” Torbjörn demands.

Winston raises his eyebrows at the impatient Swede. “Yes. I sent all of them a message through the official Overwatch channel, but only two agents responded.”

“Well, what about the ones that didn't? Can't you track 'em down?” Torbjörn says urgently, gesturing with his prosthetic hand. When Winston doesn’t respond with anything more than an ‘uh’, he continues, “Don't they got holopads or email addresses or P.O. boxes you can get a message to?”

Reinhardt finds himself nodding in agreement. Surely if Talon can find their agents, Winston and Athena can as well?

“It's...not that simple,” Winston says, worrying the edges of his holopad. “The ones whose holopad links I had I sent a message to, but padlinks can change. Same with email addresses. I tried contacting them every way I could think of, short of hunting them down in person. The fact is, either their information has changed, or they know and don't want to respond, or…”

Winston doesn't speak the last option, but Reinhardt can guess what he isn't saying. _Or they're already gone._

“Well, maybe we _should_ go searchin’ for 'em,” Jesse says. “Ain't like we're doin’ much here, just waitin’ for the Russians to get their heads outta their asses and ask for help. Send a couple o’ us with the information ya do have. I'm pretty good at huntin’ down quarry.”

“I agree,” Genji says from across the table with a nod. “Send me as well. I will travel swiftly.”

“W-well, hold on,” Winston says, holding out one massive hand, “there's something I want to show you before we made any decisions. There's been a bit of a development in Russia, just this morning.”

 _A development in Russia?_ Reinhardt hadn’t seen anything on the news today. Unless it had happened within the last thirty minutes?

Winston clicks the remote again, and the news articles disappear to be replaced with what looks like a screenshot of a webpage. He clicks again to magnify it.

It's a screenshot from a video sharing website, the picture a bit blurry as if it was taken mid-playback. It's hard to make out at first what it shows; but if he had to guess Reinhardt would say it is a view from someone's window. The foreground is an indistinct black tangle, the sky a slate-blue overcast mass of clouds. Standing in stark relief against the dreary horizon is another dark, vaguely humanoid shape. It’s reflecting the light faintly, off what might be metal plating.

Next to him, Torbjörn swears.

“Is that what I think it is?” he exclaims, slamming a hand on the table. “Why in the blue blazes hasn’t this been in the news before now?”

Everyone looks at him, confused except Winston.

“Well, this video was uploaded on a Russian video sharing website early this morning. It was up for about 7 seconds before being deleted, and Athena only managed to get a few screencaps instead of downloading it. It’s obvious they don’t want this to be seen.” Winston says, gesturing to the picture. “You know what it is?”

“ _Know?_ If it’s what I think it is, I helped _design_ the damned things!” Torbjörn roars, still staring at the image. “It’s a bloody _Titan!_ ”

A Titan. Reinhardt feels a chill as he realizes the scale of this new problem. A _Titan_. The last time he heard those words, it was from the lips of a newscaster. He had been sitting in a pub in Greenland, having a drink in the late afternoon. The news was on, and had been tuned to a breaking story about trouble in Boklovo. There had been live footage from a helicopter of a metal behemoth wreaking havoc on the city, destroying buildings, crushing tanks, killing civilians by the tens.

It had been Torbjörn who had ended all that trouble then.

“Well, it’s no bloody wonder that they can’t end this war!” Torbjörn continues his diatribe, throwing up his arms in anger. “If that thing isn’t guardin’ the omnium, I’ll eat my turret!” He continues to mutter darkly under his breath, whipping out his own pad and beginning to type frantically.

Reinhardt meets Brigitte’s wide-eyed gaze across the table. _This is bad._

“Uh...what exactly is a Titan?” Lúcio asks. “Some kinda huge omnic? Cuz that’s what it sounds like.”

Reinhardt looks at the young medic’s confused face. Of course, Lúcio would have been much younger, the last time a Titan appeared. He would not understand what such a thing was capable of.

“A huge omnic, sure,” Torbjörn says, still tapping furiously on his pad. “Bout a hundred meters tall, heavily armored, probably fitted with anti-aircraft artillery, heat-sensors, defensive drones, and a whole slew of nasty weaponry. Tch, it’s no wonder they’re not askin’ for help. If word gets out about this, it’ll throw the whole world into a panic!”

Angela raises a finger questioningly. “I do not understand. Would it not be better for the world to know? I would think more countries would be keen to help eliminate such a threat.”

Torbjörn shakes his head at her. “No. Y’ don't understand how the Russians _think_. Even during the Omnic Crisis, they didn't want help from anybody. They're a proud people, those Russians. Even though that last war nearly destroyed the whole country!”

Reinhardt nods, voicing his own agreement. “Yes. They will think any offer of assistance a threat to their own autonomy. They are too proud to accept the help of the other nations.”

 _Wait_. He feels an inkling of an idea.

“So...they don't want this information about the Titan to become public because they think they will be forced to accept assistance?” Angela says, wrinkling her nose delicately in disapproval.

“Eh, something like that.” Torbjörn says, nose still in his pad. “Pride, and they don't want other nations poking their noses into their business.”

Silence descends around the table again as everyone sits back to chew on the new information.

“So...you don't want us to go searchin’ for the other agents on account'a this Titan thing?” McCree drawls.

Winston nods. “I think that once this gets out - and if I was able to screenshot it, I'm sure others have too - Russia will be feeling the pressure to do something. I think they'll be more open to accepting our help, and it'll happen sooner rather than later.”

McCree scratches the wild scruff of his beard thoughtfully. “Howabout a compromise? We make the Russians another offer fer help, n’ if they don't accept it or respond in the next week or two we move on t'findin’ our people?”

Winston thinks for a moment, closing the holoprojection as he does. The sudden absence of the wall of light leaves the room dark and hollow.

“Hm...I'll consider it,” Winston says grudgingly. “In the meantime Athena and I will keep trying to reach out to those agents. I'll send out a list of the names I have, and if any of you think you have any information that can help, or think of anything else in the meantime shoot me a message. Okay?”

Everyone nods.

And with that proclamation, the meeting is over. Reinhardt returns to his room in a daze and sits down in front of his computer. In the meeting he had felt a spark of some idea, like a window of insight into how he could get through to the RDF. In the time it’s taken him to walk from the conference room to his quarters, that light seems to have blown out, like a candle in a stiff breeze.

Now, he feels simply numb. It's like his brain has shut down, overwhelmed by the number of emotions it wants to feel.

He pulls up his email and inputs Zarya's contact, then stares blankly at the cursor where it blinks on the page. He doesn't even know where to start.

Dimly, he tries to parse through his feelings. Sadness, at the agents they had lost before ever knowing they were in harm's way. Rage at Talon, for their underhanded, low attacks. Shock, at the sight of that grainy image of the Titan. Apprehension, at what it might mean. Reinhard watches his emotions unfurl like new blooms on the inside of a greenhouse, untouched by them except for the ghostly warmth of the anger, which feels closer than all the rest.

There is a knock at his door.

“Come in!” Reinhardt calls, spinning his chair around to face whoever is entering. It's Brigitte.

“Hey,” she says, sticking her head around the doorframe. “you got a minute?”

“Certainly,” he says. It will be easier to deal with whatever she wants, rather than be alone with his thoughts right now.

She slips inside, shutting the door behind her and perches on the edge of his bed.

“So...some meeting, huh?” she jokes weakly, her tone falling flat. It's evident she has been disturbed by it as well. He grunts in agreement, leaning back in his chair.

Brigitte bounces a little on his bunk, shoving her hands under her legs. She kicks a foot, as if trying to think of something to say. Her eyes go to his face, then to her own knees, then back to his face, as if she’s reluctant to speak.

"How many of those agents did you know?" she asks quietly, flickering her gaze from his eyes to the floor. It's an intimate question, one that manages to penetrate his numb daze.

He rubs his chin, thinking in the names Winston had spoken. Of them, only Mirembe had been familiar, but that wasn't unusual. Back in the day, Overwatch had outposts and Watchpoints all over the world; it wasn't unusual for agents to never meet each other.

“I knew Mirembe,” he says, finally. “She was stationed here at Gibraltar for many months, as was I. I remember back then her husband had cancer, and was receiving treatment periodically through us. She was a nice person, and a very good agent. Great track record of keeping her people intact. She was...she was one of the agents sent on the mission where Ana Amari died.”

“Oh, Reinhardt, I’m sorry...I didn’t know,” Brigitte says, half-rising from his bunk, her face aghast. He waves his hand at her, shaking his head.

“No, it is alright. It was a long time ago.” The old wounds ache like his bones before a storm; almost unnoticeable day by day, until the rains come and he drowns in his memories. “I did not keep in contact with many from the old days when I left. It is unfortunate that this is how I am hearing of Mirembe now.”

 _Unfortunate._ More like tragic, strange, and unreal. Had Talon taken her, disposed of her? Or was it something much worse?

Brigitte plops back down on the bunk, slumping over her knees. “Ugh. This really sucks.” She rests her chin in her hands. “How do you feel about what McCree said? Do you think we should go look for the other agents?”

Reinhardt shrugs, his chair creaking. “I do think we should look for them, however I think without a good lead on their location, we would waste a lot of time. No doubt it would lead to a conflict with Talon.” _A conflict, that we may not win if we are separated_.

“Man, it’s just so _frustrating!_ ” Brigitte pushes her fingers against her cheeks, distorting them. “If Talon can find them, we should be able to as well! Can’t Athena like, hack a national database or something?”

Reinhardt doesn’t actually know what Athena is capable of. “I do not actually know,” he admits. He may not know Athena, but he does know Winston. “I do think that Winston would be less inclined to use such methods to obtain information. Overwatch, while we operate outside the laws, tends to try to abide by them while achieving our aim. If we have no code of honor, we are no better than Talon.”

Brigitte makes an incoherent noise of aggravation and throws herself backwards onto his bed. “Fine, we have to play by the rules. Mostly. But if that isn’t bad enough, we have the Titan to worry about now?”

The Titan.

Reinhardt himself had never faced one before, but he had followed the news in Boklovo as it unfolded, and seen the images of the destruction. Torbjörn had even regaled him with the story of its origin and defeat - but imagining actually facing an omnic the size of a skyscraper? It was daunting, to say the least. There was one small detail Brigitte had missed though.

“We only have to worry about it if Russia will let us help,” Reinhardt says. “Which seems remote.”

“But _why?_ ” Brigitte seems to be determined to be frustrated, continuing this line of questioning. “Don’t you think that now we know about this big secret thing, that we could use it as leverage or something?”

Her words spark something in him. Yes, leverage...the secret. The problem facing Russia, if there was some way they could get rid of it without the greater public knowing…

“You might be onto something,” Reinhardt says thoughtfully. A plan is coming together in his mind, the words finally flowing. He knows what he wants to say to Zarya. Unceremoniously, he swivels around to face his computer, setting his fingers to the keyboard. Zarya’s lack of insight into her superior’s reluctance to accept Overwatch’s aid was all that had come of his first correspondence, though they had kept up a routine discussion of weightlifting and powerlifting. Trading workout plans and changing routines was one way to get to know each other and keep an open line of communication.

Now, he would talk business with her.

“What do you mean? Do you think we could blackmail the Russians with the Titan thing, or - what are you doing?” Brigitte has come up behind him, peeking over his shoulder at his screen.

“I am sending a message to Lieutenant Zarya,” he answers, typing his salutation.

“The one Winston was corresponding with?” Brigitte says excitedly, hanging further over his shoulder so that she’s nearly cheek-to-cheek with him. “You’ve been talking to her? What’s she like? What’s she saying about what’s happening there? Is she nice?” The rapid-fire barrage of questions distracts him momentarily from his writing, so he abandons it in favor of reaching up and placing a finger against her lips.

“Give me a moment to write this _Shildlein_ , then I will answer your questions.”

She retaliates by pretending to bite his finger, but acquiesces.

Reinhardt types for nearly ten minutes, reading and re-reading the text and altering it until he feels it’s perfect. Then, he sends it off. With any luck, he will get a response within the next week and they’ll be able to plan from there. Reinhardt stands up from his chair, stretching out with a groan and a pop of many joints.

“So? You gonna tell me about her? What you’ve been talking about?” Brigitte is positively vibrating with enthusiasm from her spot back on the bunk. He takes a seat next to her, leaning back onto his bed. He must have a pavlovian response to this bunk; every time he sits here, he’s almost overcome with exhaustion.

“She is a Lieutenant with the Russian Defense Forces,” he says, and Brigitte rolls her eyes at the obvious statement. “She was also set to represent Russia in the bodybuilding world championships before the omnium re-activated. You can find her online if you search; she is quite a formidable woman.”

“Wow, really? Brigitte says, awed. “She sounds awesome. Has she told you anything about what’s happening over there?”

“Some,” he answers. “Not any more than what we already know. Mostly she has described the different omnic types they have faced.” _Well, except the Titan._ “I have been trying to see if I can offer any excuse that she can give the RDF to allow us to intervene in Russia.”

Brigitte turns on her side to face him, propping her head up on one arm. “So, it’s been kind of a dead end.”

“Yes. Until tonight. I think you are right; using our knowledge of the Titan, we may be able to persuade the Russians to let us intervene. If we can guarantee them a way to resolve this problem without involving the wider public, and without getting their own hands dirty it may sway them to agree.”

Brigitte chews her lip thoughtfully. “So, that’s what you said to her? That we could do it?”

“Not exactly…” he isn’t sure if he wants to tell her that what he _did_ do was essentially offer up Torbjörn’s expertise on a silver platter. Torbjörn’s involvement will come at the price of the rest of Overwatch’s involvement as well. “I told them that we had inside knowledge of how to defeat the Titan.”

Brigitte reaches over, grabs one of his pillows and then boffs him gently in the face. “You sold Papa out! Some friend you are!”

“I did no such thing,” he denies staunchly, attempting to wrestle the pillow from her grasp. She clings to it stubbornly, even when Reinhardt ends up hauling her halfway onto his chest in one powerful heave. She relents her grip when he pokes her in one ticklish armpit.

“Fine. Well, if they accept it, I guess that’s all that matters,” she says, turning up her nose. She peeks down at him through one narrowed eye.

“Is Lieutenant Zarya pretty?”

“ _Brigitte!_ ”

***

In the end, Reinhardt only has to wait two days for a response from Lieutenant Zarya. That morning after cleaning up the kitchen, he returns to his room to check his email in his free time before sparring with Brigitte. When he sees the message, his eyes widen and he immediately forwards it to Winston.

The RDF has accepted their offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, the plot is finally advancing!


	19. Chapter 19

The morning that Winston announces that they’re flying to Russia, Brigitte nearly chokes on her eggs. She manages to swallow them down with plenty of coughing and a gulp of water, emerging red-faced on the other side.

“Wow, that was fast!” she croaks, and nudges Reinhardt in the side. “Look like your flirting really worked!”

He gives her his grumpy bear look, having not had enough coffee yet to appreciate her teasing, while across the table Lena and Lúcio' raise their eyebrows. The rest of the team looks at Reinhardt, and Winston says “Um...what?”

“Oh, nothing,” Brigitte brushes off the comment, taking another bite of food. “What were you saying?”

Winston blinks back down at his pad, and Brigitte can almost hear the moment his brain clicks back into gear. “Okay, ah - I have it planned that we’ll fly out in four day. Everyone, take time to ensure all your equipment is in good shape, and give me any orders for extra supplies you might need by the end of today and I’ll have everything expedited here. We’ll probably need a day to pack everything, so the day before I’m cancelling our sims, but I want to run a few extra-long sessions in the next three days, just to prepare for the kind of firefights we might see there. So, meet at the training range at ten, we’re going to practice through lunch.”

There’s a disappointed groan from around the table, from everyone except Reinhardt, Genji and Angela. 

“I know, I know,” Winston says, shrugging his shoulders, “but I want to try to mimic our conditions as best we can. We’ll probably be fighting on an empty stomach.”

Brigitte takes an extra helping of eggs after that pronouncement. 

In her room after breakfast, Brigitte sits at her desk, hunched over a pad of paper. She begins to write, scribbling lists of equipment, tools, and tasks that all need to be done before they leave. When her list overflows the first page, she rips it off and begins a second. She can probably expect to help Papa with some of his stuff too - undoubtedly he’ll be bringing a few turrets, and boxes upon boxes of ammo. Will he need any special tools to take down the Titan? She makes another note to ask him about that.

Now that the mission’s looming over her, it feels like there’s so much she’s skimped on doing. Her desire to work on Reinhardt’s new armor overrode everything else, so she hasn't oiled or polished their suits for nearly a week. She'll have to do that tonight, since it's time for sims now.

When she clunks down the stairs and into the sim room, she's surprised to see the black-clad figure of Hanzo standing next to Genji. They're standing apart from the group, Hanzo looking surly while Genji tilts his visor towards him and mutters in a low hum that she cannot make out.

So, has Hanzo joined Overwatch?

The doors open again as Winston barrels through. 

"Sorry, everyone. Had to make some last-minute changes to the program since we are going so long. Is everybody-" he stops short at the sight of Hanzo, sitting back on his haunches. "-uh. Are you wanting to watch, today?" 

Hanzo snorts. "No. We are going to Russia, are we not? I would think it obvious that I would join you to prepare."

So, he's joining them on the mission? This is news to everyone except Genji.

"But, you-" Winston starts, flustered, "you're not part of Overwatch. Only agents are officially sanctioned to attend missions."

Hanzo narrows his eyes. Before he can open his mouth, Genji steps forward and dips his head, hands clasped. 

"Forgive me for my rudeness, Winston. I invited my brother to join our mission. I thought that his expertise would be welcome, and that the addition of another fighter would strengthen our ranks."

Winston goggles for a minute, and looks around to the rest of the team. 

"Well...how does everyone else feel about this?"

Brigitte exchanged a glance with Reinhardt, then sweeps her gaze across everyone else. They're all looking at each other, as if expecting someone to say something. Nobody speaks up. 

"Um...I don't mind," she says, raising her mace as she speaks like she's a schoolgirl in lecture. "I think we could use more firepower." Not to mention, she already invited him to join the sims weeks ago. To go back on her word now would be rude.

_ Besides, he hasn't murdered us in our sleep yet _ .

McCree tips his hat back and shifts his weight to one hip, spurs clinking. "Don't see any reason why not. Could always use someone with snipin' skills on the team." He turns his head to Lena, nudging her with his elbow. "Whaddaya think?"

Lena shrugs, and twirls one of her pistols. "Sure! I think Genji is right, we could use another person for this fight," she cocks her head at Hanzo, fringe bouncing. "Are you wanting to join Overwatch?"

Hanzo folds his arms, standoffish. "No. I am here only for my brother." 

Brigitte wonders if it’s a cultural thing, to be so brusque and straightforward. Or maybe it’s just a Hanzo thing. Either way, his tone is businesslike, clipped. She wonders why he’s so cold to them, when they’ve done nothing but offer him hospitality.

"Well, okay then!" Lena chirps, and holsters her pistol. "But I don't think that attitude is gonna fly with the rest of us."

"No, it will not." This time it is Angela who speaks, and Brigitte has never heard her sound so frigid. She steps forward, planting her Caduceus staff on the ground with a  _ click _ . 

"If you can't fight for the good of the team, you can't be a part of this mission," she says sternly, pinning Hanzo with icy blue stare. "Regardless of whether you are a member of Overwatch or not."

The air crackles with tension as Hanzo turns toward her. Brigitte can see the muscles ripple beneath his dragon tattoo as he pulls his shoulders back.

"No? You would be so foolish as to deny the addition of a peerless fighter to your ranks, when you are about to enter a war zone?" he says - borderline sneering. 

"Yes." 

There's not an ounce of hesitation in Angela's declaration, her resolve unwavering. "If we can't trust you to work as part of the team, you're a liability to the safety of everyone."

Torbjörn steps up to side with her. "She's right," he barks, pointing his forge prosthetic at Hanzo. "An unpredictable ally is worse than an enemy! At least the rustbuckets we'll be facin' all have the same agenda. If we don’t know what yer actions are gonna be on the battlefield, there’s no tellin’ what might happen!"

The tension is rising, Hanzo and Angela practically turned to slabs of stone as they face off. Brigitte doesn't want this to turn into a fight, but it feels increasingly like where this talk is headed, unless something changes. She wants to say  _ something _ \- but what? Angela and her Papa are right, if Hanzo is only going to watch out for Genji, he's not going to be much help. But Hanzo is right too, if he’s as good as Genji is, he’d be a valuable ally...

She catches Lúcio's eye, but he looks just as paralyzed as she feels. He knows everyone here less than she does, poor guy.

The doors to the sim lab open, and close.

Zenyatta hovers just inside the door, his  _ mala _ drifting peacefully around him. He advances towards them silently, and Genji flits to his side immediately.

"I sensed the discord emanating between you," he says to the group at large, as if to explain his sudden appearance. "What has happened, to spark such adversity?" 

Genji bows to Zenyatta's ear, murmuring quietly. As he explains the situation his hands flutter like birds, gesturing between different members of the group. Brigitte feels strangely like she's being brought before the schoolmaster, about to be chided for being naughty.

"Ah, I see," Zenyatta murmurs once Genji's explanation ends. "A miscommunication."

Brigitte isn't sure 'miscommunication' is an adequate descriptor for the fight that's about to break out. 'Fundamental difference of opinion'  _ might _ come close.

Zenyatta floats closer, coming between Hanzo and the rest of the Overwatch agents. "I would like to be of assistance, if I may?" he asks, turning his faceplate to Wilson.

"Er...go right ahead!" Winston says. He sounds relieved, eager to give up his mediator responsibilities. 

Hanzo is not so keen on this development.

"We do not need your  _ assistance _ with these matters, omnic!" he says, voice a hairsbreadth from becoming a snarl. "We will resolve this as  _ equals _ ."

The silence is deafening. Zenyatta's  _ mala _ continue their easy swirl, gleaming gold and silver in the fluorescent lights. Is it just Brigitte's imagination, or are they glowing faintly?

Genji hisses something in angry Japanese at Hanzo, who turns his head away. 

"Be easy, Genji." Zenyatta lays a hand on Genji's arm, and it's amazing how suddenly the sharp tension seems to drain from the cyborg. He slouches, loose-limbed and languid at his Master’s side, as content as a dog receiving a pat. It’s kind of freaky.

“So, you wish to aid your comrades on this mission, yes?” Zenyatta says to Hanzo, whose lip curls at the word ‘comrades’. Hanzo says nothing though, which Zenyatta seems to take as an affirmation. “And so far you have been unwill to engage with them.”

The monk turns to Angela and Torbjörn. “And you do not trust a stranger at your backs.” His  _ mala _ tighten their orbit, spinning rapidly for a moment before relaxing back into a lazy circle. “I know of the doubts that plague you,” he says simply, looking into Angela’s fair face. She blinks, frostiness fracturing, seemingly taken aback. 

Zenyatta turns between their two groups again, spreading his palms out to either side, beseeching. “Errors in judgement arise when words are spoken in haste. Deliberate over the meaning before you come to conclusions. Hanzo, I believe the meaning of your declaration was unclear. You have come here to be with Genji, but you will fight for the team - is that correct?” 

Hanzo, still bristling at Zenyatta’s unwelcome interference, manages to nod curtly. 

“I thought it was obvious,” he says, glaring between Angela and Zenyatta. “Only a fool would disregard the tides of battle and fight alone.”

Zenyatta turns to Angela. “Is that acceptable?” 

Angela nods, and her icy aura fades. “I apologize, I did misunderstand you,” she says to Hanzo, who tilts his chin up slightly in acknowledgement. Perhaps he respects her apology, because his glare fades as well, though he says nothing. Between them, Zenyatta folds his hands in his lap again and drifts back towards Genji.

“Thank you, Master,” Genji says softly, bowing to the omnic. Zenyatta’s orbs swirl, seemingly pleased. 

“It was my pleasure,” he says to the group at large before heading back towards the sim doors. “I will take my leave for now.” Then he is gone, as silently as he had come.

“Okay,” Winston says, and after a few heartbeats pause, he moves. “Okay, well - uh, I’ll be right back. I need to grab another comm.” He follows Zenyatta’s retreating form out in a knuckled gallop.

Now they’re left in the strangest silence Brigitte has ever experienced. She isn’t sure what to say; the mix of leftover tension, curiosity, thoughtfulness and even some admiration of Zenyatta leave her feeling intrigued. Maybe after this she would ask him some questions, she wants to know how he learned to be such a good mediator. How he manages to keep so calm, almost detached even in the face of Hanzo’s ire.

Winston returns a few minutes later, cradling a spare comm which he hands to Hanzo, giving him a brief rundown of its function. Brigitte watches Hanzo inserts the comm into his ear, and then flicks on her own. There’s a small, musical  _ ping  _ as it comes to life, and then Winston’s voice is on the line. 

“Okay everyone, as you know the sim today is going to be about twice as long as usual. I’ve tried to mimic some of the conditions we can expect in Russia, so just roll with it. Remember, duck your head to talk to teammates, lift it if you want to talk to Athena.”

Brigitte readies her shield as all around them the walls flicker, then dim as they’re overlaid with a holoprojection. They become grey, rough stone and asphalt - a run-down street. To her left Papa is on the move, scouting out high ground to set up a turret. 

Brigitte ducks her head. “I’m going to cover Torbjörn while he sets up.” She follows him, shield at the ready. He’s climbing a set of stairs when the first bots appear out of nowhere, slinging energy bullets.

Reinhardt’s shield explodes into life, and the battle begins.

***

The next two days follow much the same; the extended sims really do a number on her, but Brigitte is grateful for the practice. 

Integrating Hanzo into the group had been nearly effortless. He meshes with them seamlessly, filling in the chinks in their armor. He is every bit as skilled as Genji; scaling walls and watchtowers, sending down hails of unerring arrows, sniping stray bots. More than once Brigitte has raised her shield for cover, only to see a pale arrow sprout from the faceplate of the bot nearest her. 

Even in close combat he is talented; his bow must be made of strong stuff because he’s able to bludgeon down bots with the broad side of it whenever they get too close. He darts like a fish between cover until it’s safe to gain the high ground, and once there offers insights into the flow of battle. His responses over the comms are brief, but polite. For one so opposed to joining Overwatch, Brigitte thinks he would do well here. 

Their numbers make a huge jump once he joins too, and there may be a bit of a three-way contest between Hanzo, McCree and Genji because their kills climb each day. The second day Brigitte thinks she can see a small smirk on Hanzo’s face when he turns away from the leaderboard; he’s outdone them all in kills.

By the time sims are over on the last evening before they pack, Brigitte wants nothing more than to collapse into her bed, or into a plate of food. Maybe both at the same time. However, dinner still has to be made so instead she runs back to her room for a cursory shower (sweating into the dishes is generally discouraged) and jogs into the kitchen to help Reinhardt. 

They’re in for a treat tonight - Reinhardt is cooking up some big, juicy hamburgers. The smell of the bacon grease sizzling in the cast iron skillet is enough to get Brigitte’s stomach growling. She’s leaning over his arm, watching the patties bubbling with greedy eyes until he shoos her away to help Lena cut tomatoes and onions, and she pouts. She had been hoping to snag one to scarf, piping hot before the actual meal.

The wait is worth it. 

They lay out an assembly line of toppings, baskets of fries and bottles of condiments, then sit down for first meal as a unified group. Hanzo has finally joined them at the table, looking discomfited at the prospect of eating with his hands, but at least he is here. He sits at the very end of the table next to Genji, taking quick, neat bites and saying little. 

Brigitte doesn’t mind, she’s more glad that the invisible frost surrounding Hanzo’s interactions with the group seem to have thawed. It can only bode well for the impending fight.

***

Tomorrow, they fly out to Russia.

Normal activities for the day are completely disrupted. The MV-261 (affectionately dubbed ‘Orca’ for it's fat, almost ponderous shape) is fuelled and taken for a test flight by Lena before they can load it. Though Winston and Athena had run a systems check on each aircraft after the recall, the machinery had languished in storage for years. There is no telling how smoothly it will run.

When Lena thrums back out of the clear blue sky thirty minutes later and gives a thumbs up, they're greenlighted to start packing.

Everyone is a flurry of activity: bows are strung, blades sharpened, guns oiled, fluids topped off, ammo reloaded. Everyone helps to load medical equipment, weapons, and extra cases of bullets. The Orca has ample storage compartments, but it still feels a lot smaller with all the agents going in and out. Brigitte is gratified that there’s even a special compartment just for Reinhardt’s armor - she had wondered how she could make it fit neatly between everything else. She gives the shields and plating once-over, then a twice-over before packing it. She needs to be sure everything is in tip-top shape before they go.

Once packing has been double and triple checked, everyone gathers over dinner to go over the plan. They settle down with a smorgasbord of leftovers, cleaning out the fridge and freezer. There's no telling exactly how long they'll be in Russia.

They have their orders: take out the Titan. They have not received any useful intel as to routes  _ to _ the Titan, so they must wait to strategize for that. Instead, Torbjörn goes over the information they do have: details only a man who helped design them would know.

He lectures them all over his plate of meatloaf, pointing a fork with his prosthetic hand and pulling up schematics on his holopad with the other.

“Now, Titans have external heat sensors. No way ta sneak around ‘em; the only thing that’ll work is either  _ distance _ or  _ shielding _ . Obviously we’re gonna have t’get close, so the first option’s out. Infrared shielding is an option, I already let you know,” Torbjörn nods at Winston, who returns the gesture, “So, hopefully when the RDF will have it ready. It don’t need to be pretty, it just needs to hold up for us to get close. Once we’re inside the Titan we shouldn’t have any need for it.”

Torbjörn draws for a moment on his pad, then taps it to project a diagram of a Titan. He’s drawn a circle around the legs of the behemoth.

“No tellin’ how much the Titan’s been modified, but in the original plans there were maintenance hatches on th’outside of both legs. If we’re lucky, they’ll have left ‘em there and that’s how we’ll get in. If not, well...we’ll tackle that later.” Torbjörn taps the pad again, bringing up a new schematic. It’s the layout of the Titan’s internal workings.

“Now, there’s prob’ly an internal defense system. We’ll have to destroy any drones or cameras as quick as we can, or else we’ll have the whole horde of ‘em on us. Shouldn’t be too hard, just shoot at anythin’ flyin’ around and  _ don’t miss _ .” Torbjörn uses his fork, tracing a path from the foot up to the legs and into the torso of the Titan.

“There’s ladders to ascend to a landing in the middle - that’s where security on it is gonna be tightest. We may have to go in two teams, up each leg and meet in there to make it work. Once you get there, there’s more room ‘n more ladders that lead to the control center up top. Might need some time there, there’s some security doors in both the midsection an’ the control center we’ll need to break through.” Torbjörn indicates two sets of doors, one at the top of each leg and a third near the head of the Titan.

“Once we get to the control center, I can take over from there n’ shut it down.”

“Should we not destroy it?” Hanzo says, imperious. “I do not see a point in merely disabling it.”

Torbjörn raises one bushy brow at the archer. “Considerin’ the armor on these babies is built to withstand Class A thermonuclear bombs, I think we'll have better luck goin’ with this plan. We disable the Titan, and the Russians can airstrike the omnium. Once that's destroyed the rest of this war is just moppin’ up the rest of the functional omnics.”

They all sit, staring at the revolving holograph for a moment. 

Papa makes it all sound so  _ simple _ , yet Brigitte knows that is probably miles away from reality. Just thinking about them, scurrying around like ants beneath the TItan’s monstrous metal feet is enough to make her feel a little nauseous. Good thing she already ate.

“So, once we arrive in Russia we should be briefed by the RDF on what they think our best route to the Titan will be,” Winston says, wrapping up the meeting. “I believe they have a plan and maps for us, but they didn't want to pass that information over any channels.”

“Probably an old supply tunnel or sewer, if I had to guess,” Torbjörn says, grimacing at the latter. “Keepin’ under cover is our best bet for gettin’ close.”

Brigitte remembers him telling her about wading through the sewer in Boklovo, how the IR shielding did nothing to obscure the foul odor.  _ It was a week before I could get that smell outta my nose! _

Man, she hopes they don't have to take that route.

That night Brigitte lays in bed, trying unsuccessfully to sleep. Her mind is alive with worry, darting like a hummingbird through a series of mental checks. Has she packed everything they’ll need? Is she forgetting any tools? Should she recheck Reinhardt’s armor before they leave? Should she bring her older shield as a backup? 

Behind all these nagging thoughts lies that grainy video footage of a hulking, dark figure.

_ A Titan. _

Brigitte had done her research, even before the briefing this evening; she knows what Titans are. Heck, it hadn’t been that long ago that her father had been forced to apprehend his old friend Sven, who had appropriated a Titan for his own fiendish purposes. She feels some relief that they have her father. Who better to take down a Titan than its creator? They’ve gone over the strategies, the possibilities, what may lie ahead for them, but still…

Brigitte worries. If the whole of the Russian Defense Forces hadn’t made any headway against it, it feels a little unbelievable, thinking they will.

She lays there for several minutes, forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply, to keep her eyelids firmly shut and hope her restless mind will quiet itself. She notices some of her hair is trapped under her cheek, and frees it. After awhile that side of her body starts to feel too warm, so she turns over to her other side. Her blankets are overheating her, so she kicks them off, only to get cold within a few minutes. She sticks her feet out from beneath the covers, hoping that will balance it out but instead it just makes her toes icy.

Frustrated, Brigitte gets up and leaves her bedroom. She  _ has _ to get these fears out in the open or they’ll drive her crazy. Padding down the hall, she reaches a crossroads. To her left is her father’s door, to her right, Reinhardt's. If she goes to talk to her father, what will he say? She can imagine it already; he’ll go over the strategy again with her, give her the specs of a Titan, together they’ll analyze it’s weaknesses, and what to expect.

She knocks softly on Reinhardt’s door.

Brigitte hears an indistinct sound from inside his bedroom that might have been a welcome, so she pushes the door open. The room is dark, becoming completely black when she closes the door behind her. Before the light from the hall vanishes, she gets a glimpse of Reinhardt’s shirtless form sitting upright in his bunk, a blanket half-over his lap.  _ Whoops _ . She should have guessed he’d already be asleep.

“Reinhardt?” She shuffles towards him in the darkness, trying not trip on anything that may be on the floor. 

“Yes,  _ Shildlein? _ ” Reinhardt answers, voice heavy and fuzzed by sleep. She feels guilty, having woken him up.

“Um, sorry for waking you,” she whispers, not wanting to break the somnolent ambiance of the room. “I just...I’m just kinda worried about this whole mission.” Her eyes still bleached from the light, she moves blindly towards his bunk, one hand feeling the air in front of her. Reinhardt meets her halfway, one of his outstretched arms colliding with hers when she gets close enough. He helps her to the edge of the bed and she sits, shivering slightly with the cold. 

A warm weight drapes over her shoulders. Reinhardt has swept part of the blanket over her.

“Are you scared?” he asks, the question followed by a muzzy yawn.

“No...not scared,” she says, which is the truth. Brigitte is not  _ scared _ per say, just...overwhelmed. “It just feels like there’s so much we don't know yet. So much that could go wrong.”

It’s easier to talk to him like this, shrouded in the darkness. She doesn’t have to see his face, the concern that could be written there. Hopefully he doesn’t think she’s going to chicken out of this mission, because nothing could be further from the truth. 

Reinhardt hums, a baritone rumble that means he’s thinking of a response. 

“It is normal, to be nervous before your first mission. It means you understand what we are up against,” he says finally. “But do not let worry paralyze you. Remember your training, and your teammates. You trust them, yes?”

She nods, before realizing that he can’t see her. “Yes.”  _ Well, maybe not Hanzo. _

“Then trust that everyone will know what to do, when the time comes. We have been in dangerous situations before, and you have always reacted appropriately. Trust your training.” 

Brigitte traces the scar on her scalp.  _ We have been in dangerous situations before. _ The last time had not gone so well. But then, there had only been the two of them. 

She leans against Reinhardt’s side, his bare skin a hot counterpoint to the chill of the room. He brings his arm around her, pulling her flush against him. She can feel the strong pounding of his heart, vibrating through her bones.

Brigitte turns her head against his shoulder, murmuring the words towards his armpit. “So...you think that we’ll do well?”

_ You think that  _ I’ll  _ do well? _

_“_ Yes, I do.” Reinhardt says the words with such steadfast certainty that she can’t help but believe them. Her worries melt away, leaving nothing but a swell of contentment and gratitude. Somehow, he always manages to make her feel better.

Brigitte slides out from under his arm, only to wrap him up in a tight hug. Surprised, it takes him a second before his arms come around her, crushing her in an answering embrace. For a moment, she is acutely aware that he is shirtless. That must be why this hug seems so much  _ warmer _ than normal. So warm in fact that her own face flushes with heat. 

“Thanks, Reinhardt,” she sighs, and they break apart. “I think I can sleep now. Uh, sorry again for waking you.” 

“It is not a problem,  _ Shildlein _ . Sleep well.”

Brigitte feels her way back to the door and then slips out quickly, trying not to blind him with it. When she crawls back into her own bunk she finds a comfortable position quickly, and this time her mind is quiet. She can sense the roar of the ocean through the stone, a gentle, ceaseless thrum of white noise…

_They're out under the star-strewn sky, surrounded by trees in a vast, grassy field. Andreas's farm. They're surrounded by danger._  


_ Brigitte is edging around Reinhardt’s blind side, backed up against a row of defunct omnics. She throws her flail towards the nearest shooting figure, striking his arm and knocking his gun to the ground. As she turns to glance at Reinhardt, she sees it - a man, who has flanked them! _

_ She charges towards the man, shield raised. She can see the flash of his gun as he shoots, and she closes the gap so that he’s forced to target her. She swings her mace, forcing him to drop his gun but now he has something in his hands, and when she tries to flail at his head her weapon tangles with his.  _

_ She knows what comes next. _

_ She bashes him with her shield, and beats at his legs, trying to take him to the ground. There’s a tinny whistling sound as metal zips through the air, and then - _

Crunch!

_ Reinhardt is there, swinging his hammer in an upward stroke that knocks the man clean off his feet. He lands yards away, and does not get back up. _

_ Brigitte looks up into the face of her hero, and smiles. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brigitte got her happy ending, of sorts.


	20. Krasnoyarsk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, upon writing this chapter I came to the realization that I done goofed before. Zarya would not have had her pink hair or her scar prior to joining the RDF, so I've altered the story accordingly. So, if you wonder at the reactions to her, that would probably be why. 
> 
> So sorry!
> 
> Also, thanks to my beta Dan Francisco for insight into Russian army meals and military ranks!

_"You're up early," Ana remarks as Reinhardt comes around the corner into the breakfast nook._

_"Couldn't sleep," he says._

_She's leaning against the counter, watching a kettle that is already boiling. "Are you worried?"_

_"Me? Worried?" He has spirit enough to laugh at the suggestion. "Never!" It is not precisely a lie; he has worries enough but not about this._

_"A lot is riding on this. Jack's worried himself sick."_

_Of course, Jack would. It is he who will be taking all the responsibility for what they are about to do. All the censure, and potentially all the glory._

_Tomorrow they take back King's Row._

_"I do not envy him," says Reinhardt. "Nor you."_

_Jack may be the face of Overwatch, but Amari is its brain. It is her plan they will be executing tomorrow. She will be watching from on high, altering it in real-time and feeding information to the strike commanders._

_Reinhardt has run enough missions with her by now to know that she wouldn't advocate for this if she didn't believe they would win._

_Amari laughs, low and rich. "I suppose you wouldn't."_

_Yes, he has found his niche. This is where he belongs, this is what he loves. The simple swing of his hammer, the protective curve of his shield. He lives for the fight. He must love it, or be driven mad by it._

_Amari takes the kettle from the burner and extinguishes the flame with a twist of a knob. She sets it aside and then dangles two infusers through the lid._

_"Do you think she is ready?" Ana asks._

_She, meaning Lena Oxton. The newest member of Overwatch, whose first mission may be the most important one she will ever face._

_They had practiced, of course. Ever since Null Sector had held King's Row hostage they had prepared to fight. Even now that the British government had forbidden it, they still trained. This furious energy had to go somewhere, and now they are arrows poised to leap from the bow._

_"Yes. We all are," he said without hesitation._

_Ana goes to the cupboards and withdraws another cup and saucer, setting them beside the pair already on the counter._

_"Tea?"_

_Reinhardt is not normally a tea-drinker, but he appreciates the offer so he accepts. She pours a stream of steaming liquid into one cup, then the next. She takes a spoon and digs into the earthenware sugar bowl that sits next to the flour and spoons two mounds of sugar into each cup, then stirs. When she hands him his cup, he sniffs it curiously._

_It smells like...tea. He hasn't had it often enough to distinguish any particular notes aside from the floral sweetness of it._

_"What kind?" he asks, blowing across the fragrant surface. The tea is murky, almost the same shade as black coffee._

_"It is_ saiidi _,_ _from Aswan. Near my home."_

_Reinhardt takes a tentative sip. Even with all the blowing, it is still hot enough to sting his lips. Amari takes a drink from her own cup, unfazed by the heat._

_It is thick, almost syrupy from all the sugar, but even with it there's an edge of bitterness that cuts through the darkly florid taste. It's not bad. He tells her this, and she smiles a little at his surprise._

_Each subsequent sip is easier than the last. Together they drink in silence that is only broken by the soft clink of the teacups on their saucers._

_Amari finishes before him and pours herself another cup._

_“Take care of them out there tomorrow, Wilhelm."_

_It is a charge, not a statement. The eye of Horus, dark as kohl pins him where he stands._

_"I will," he promises. He is their shield, he will not fail them._

_That had been the first cup of tea he had shared with Amari, and one of the last._

 

_***_

 

Reinhardt awakens early the morning they are to depart, as is his tradition. His alarm goes off promptly at 4:30, and he rolls out of bed with a groan. The coming winter is already sinking icy fingers into his joints.

He warms them with a hot shower, then a perfunctory stretch. Touch toes, side-to-side bend, air squats, hamstring curl. Then he heads to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

While he waits for it to brew he lets his mind wander. He does not dwell on what the day will bring, he will find that out soon enough. Instead he sets out several mugs and the pot of sugar, and when the coffeemaker beeps the end of its cycle he pours himself his first cup.

Reinhardt leans against the counter, cradling the mug in his hands and letting it warm him. The heat helps with the worst of the ache in his knuckles.

He sits and waits, and listens to the Watchpoint awaken around him.

The first to emerge is Hanzo. The archer arrives in the kitchen already fully dressed in his winter gear; black ski pants, a black winter coat, and, instead of his quiver, a royal blue sling bag is strapped over one shoulder.

"Coffee?" Reinhardt offers.

At first it seems like Hanzo will refuse, but he eyes the mug still steaming in Reinhardt's grip, then accepts. He takes his drink and leaves, and as he goes Reinhardt notices a glint of silver at the ridge of his nose. Hanzo has a piercing. Strange, how he never noticed that.

Next through is Winston, who refuses the coffee but instead selects a banana and heads for the hangar. Shortly on his heels is Lena, who takes her coffee with a few heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of creamer, then speeds off after Winston. The two of them are to run pre-checks on the Orca, a task that usually takes half an hour.

They are set to leave at 7, and it is just after half-past 5 now.

Reinhardt finishes his first cup and is partway through his second when McCree arrives. He's dressed in his usual regalia, windblown and pink-cheeked from the cold. The earthy smell of his _cigarillos_ follow him, and Reinhardt knows he has been outside smoking.

"T-that looks l-like just the ticket," he says, shivering. Off the warmer comes the coffee pot, and McCree pours himself a mug so enthusiastically it almost overflows.

He joins Reinhardt in his silent vigil of the coffee pot, drinking down the black brew in great gulps.

At 6:14 Brigitte and Lúcio drag themselves into the kitchen. Lúcio, half asleep fumbles for the pot while Brigitte raids the cupboard.

"Oh my God," says Lúcio as he stirs cream into his coffee and douses it liberally with sugar. "I think I'm gonna die."

Reinhardt and McCree both raise an eyebrow at him. Brigitte turns with a box of cereal in her hands.

"Don't be dramatic, Lu," she says, helping herself to some dry cereal. They're all out of milk.

_Lu?_

"You're only saying that because you got sleep!" Lúcio says, drinking his milky concoction. "I didn't sleep a wink. I took like, six melatonin gummies and everything."

"Are you worried?" Reinhardt asks, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu.

"Yes!" Lúcio exclaims. "This is like, first-mission jitters to the _max!_ I kept thinking like 'what if my suit breaks before even get there' and 'what if I forget the call-outs' and 'what if I forget how to speak English'- _"_

Brigitte snorts laughter, almost spewing a mouthful of cornflakes. "Really?"

Reinhardt intervenes, laying a hand on Lúcio's shoulder. "Do not worry, Lúcio. We all felt this way before our first big fight."

He tells the story of how the night before his first fight he foolishly entered an impromptu drinking competition with his Captain, resulting in a massive hangover and him puking out the window of their truck convoy.

"That ain't nothin'," McCree says. "My first heist I was so nervous I couldn't even load my gun! Damn near used up all the speedloaders cuz I kept fumblin' my bullets. That's actually how the _federales_ caught up to my ol' street gang, on account'a the bullets I left behind."

Brigitte, not wanting to be left out interjects, "I hit myself in the head with my flail the first time I used it in combat!"

They all laugh at the follies of their first fights, and Lúcio grins wearily over his cup.

"Thanks guys. That makes me feel a little better."

Reinhardt checks his watch. It is 6:32, about time that they begin wrapping this up and getting outfitted for the Siberian cold.

Brigitte crams another handful of cornflakes into her mouth, then returns the box to the cupboard. "These things could really use some honey, bleh. Or at least some milk."

"You could have put some coffee in it," Reinhardt jokes. 

Brigitte snatches his mug and drains the remaining quarter-inch of coffee within, then hands it back, grimacing. "Ugh. I don't know how you can drink it like that."

"You _can_ make your own cup, you know."

"Nah, no time. Gotta get the rest of my gear on. Catch you guys in a few!" And then she is gone.

She is right though, it is time to move. The mugs and coffeepot go into the dishwasher, the lights are flipped off and then Reinhardt returns to his room. He dresses, then collects his duffel bag and joins the small convoy heading to the hangar.

Torbjörn, Lena and Winston are on the launchpad where the Orca has been moved. Torbjörn checking the weapon and shield systems, Lena and Winston helping to load the last of the luggage onto the aircraft.

Once on board, Reinhardt watches the last stragglers arrive. Angela arrives, then Genji followed by Zenyatta. Genji speaks to his master for a moment before bowing and joining them on the Orca. Zenyatta will remain behind, watching over the Watchpoint with Athena. This is just as well; Reinhardt does not think the battlefield is the place for a monk. An omnic monk, whose brethren are being slaughtered by the hundreds out there.

Winston, Lena and Torbjörn are the last to enter the Orca, and the door raises shut behind them. Reinhardt straps himself into a seat just as Lena's voice comes overhead.

"Alright you lot, this is your captain speaking! Please buckle in to your seats, we're about ready to take off!"

She gives them a quick run through of the safety features of the Orca; the emergency door mechanism, the oxygen masks, the procedure in case of a crash landing, the parachutes built into their seats. Reinhardt pulls down his shoulder restraint until the metal clicks into place, and around him the others follow suit.

"I think that about covers it. If no one has any objections, prepare for takeoff!"

There's a hum that builds as the hover units begin to power up, and to his right Brigitte groans. Ah yes, she dislikes flying.

"Takeoff is the worst part," she mumbles, holding tightly to her safety bar. "I can't look."

"You might be surprised," he tells her. She has never ridden in a ship quite like the Orca, after all.

The hover units are joined by the roar of the thrusters as they fire, and the ship lifts off into the brightening sky.

The force of liftoff presses them into their seats, then eases as their momentum builds. The Watchpoint shrinks rapidly, becoming a pale gray block amid the blue bulk of the ocean and the dull green of the fields turning to dormancy, then even those are obscured as they ascend through the sparse cloud cover.

After a few minutes the sound of the thrusters changes, and Lena's voice comes overhead again. "Alright loves, we've reached our cruising altitude of 12,200 meters! It's safe to move about the cabin now. We're set to arrive at Krasnoyarsk in 8 hours, 24 minutes."

The safety harnesses are unlocked, and Reinhardt releases his, then helps Brigitte and Lúcio when they struggle with theirs.

"What it as bad as you expected?" he asks Brigitte as she stands and stretches.

"No, but I still hate flying."

The flight is a long one. Not quite long enough to warrant an overnight journey that they could have slept through, and not short enough that they can comfortably remain in their seats. The first hour is passed waking up, the coffee finally clearing out any remaining fuzziness.

Then McCree pulls out a pack of playing cards and teaches them a game called 'Texas hold'em', a form of poker. Angela wrinkles her nose when the prospect of betting comes up, and they compromise by having only silly punishments for the first person out.

To everyone's surprise the consistent winners are Hanzo, Genji, and Lúcio.

"Now that ain't right!" McCree laments when he's the first one out on their fifth round and is forced to dance a jig. "Genji, I’m beginnin' to think you got an unfair advantage!"

"If anyone has an advantage, it is Hanzo," Genji intones, sounding amused. "He has not told you that he was the champion of an American poker tournament."

Everyone turns to Hanzo, who shoots an annoyed look at his brother. McCree yelps, "You _what?!_ "

Hanzo places his cards down flat on the table. "It was a long time ago." It's clear from his tone he wants this to be the end of it, but now everyone's interest is piqued.

"Really? That's so awesome!" Lúcio exclaims.

"You won a poker tournament?" says Brigitte. "How much did you win?"

" _What am I missing?!"_ Lena's voice drifts from the cockpit, alerted by McCree's yelp.

"I would like to hear this tale," Reinhardt supplements. A good tale always makes the journey go faster.

Unused to being the center of attention, Hanzo shifts uneasily. "It is a long story."

"Ah c'mon brother, everyone wants to hear it!" Genji says, slapping his own cards down on the table. “Go on!”

Hanzo sighs. "Fine, but _you_ must keep dancing!" he points a finger at McCree, who has stopped in his shock. As soon as McCree's boots begin to move, he starts talking.

Hanzo's tale spawns a game of two truths and a lie, which often descends into long-winded stories elaborating the more wild truths.

Almost before Reinhardt knows it they've been in the air for 4 hours, and next to him Brigitte is complaining of hunger. Lunch is more of a collection of non-perishable snacks than a real meal, but that's fine by him. He prefers to eat light going into a mission; the edge of hunger sharpens his wits.

After lunch there's a brief slump in the energy, and everyone takes a siesta. Reinhardt rests his eyes alongside Lúcio, while the others do who-knows-what. For awhile the world is dark, indistinct, brief flashes of dreams surfacing from his subconscious like colorful fish.

After a time, soft conversation awakens him. It is Torbjörn and Winston, who has come down from the cockpit.

"They told me they've acquired everything on the list you sent me," Winston is saying, hunched over his pad.

"Aye, but they better have some decent machinists too, 'else this whole mission's gonna take a while." Torbjörn says, and gestures to his own pad for Winston to look.

Across from where he sits, Reinhardt spies Brigitte toying with something orange that looks like a rotted fruit. Recognition sparks in him, spurring him to finally get up.

"Well, I finally figured out what the basketball hoop is for," she says as he approaches, squeezing the deflated ball. "But I don't think this is gonna cut it."

"I may have a solution," he says, taking it from her. He rummages through a side storage pocket near to where the basketball had usually been stored, and turns up a handheld air pump. He inserts the needle into the ball's orifice and then pumps until the pebbled skin is taut.

Giving the ball a test dribble attracts everyone's attention, and wakes Lúcio.

"Oh, are we keeping with the tradition?" Angela says, drifting over.

He hands her the revitalized basketball with a grin. "Of course!"

"What tradition?" asks Brigitte.

"Oh no, not _this!"_ Torbjörn sees what they're looking and and groans, but it lacks heat.

"Yes, this!" Reinhardt says, "We must keep Ray's tradition alive!" At Brigitte and Lúcio's confused looks, he elaborates. "Ray was our pilot before our esteemed Lena joined Overwatch."

"Damned good pilot too," Torbjörn interjects.

"He remained with the aircraft while we were on missions, which bored him. He installed a basketball goal as both a joke and to keep himself busy, which then progressed to a wager. Whoever made the first free throw would get to choose where we ate on the way back."

"Of course, the outcome was predictable," Angela laughs. "And Ray did have an abnormal fodness for Italian food. I never ate so much risotto in all my life!”

"Yes," says Reinhardt, "and when he left we kept it going. Though we may have... _altered_ the hoop somewhat."

Angela tosses the ball up, only for it to bounce off the backboard. Reinhardt intercepts it before it careens into the table where Torbjörn is standing, then passes it to Brigitte.

They take turns shooting, though their aim is questionable at best. The number of interested shooters increases until even Winston looks up from his pad. Lúcio, attempting to spin the ball on his finger for a trick shot drops it, and it rolls away. Winston scoops up the ball as it comes toward him, examining it thoughtfully.

"Take the shot!" calls Lúcio, to the cheers of Brigitte and Lena, who is watching over her shoulder from the captain's chair.

Winston deliberates for a moment then lobs the ball, a surprisingly delicate move for as large as he is. It floats in a perfect arc before dropping straight through the net, not even touching the rim.

The cheers of the enthusiastic younger crew are momentarily drowned out by the blast of air horns and an explosion of confetti, and Reinhardt can't help but smile at the stunned expressions on their faces. He remembers how surprising that had been the first time it had been tripped.

"Woah, I did not expect that," says Lúcio, plucking a red piece of confetti from his dreadlocks. He can't possibly see the other pieces speckling the back of his head, so he is helped by Brigitte and McCree.

"Yeah, _that_ particular addition was my idea. Adds a lil’ flair to the thing, don’it?" McCree says, then adds, "Hey, Winston! Be thinkin' 'bout what kinda grub you want on the way home!"

The rest of the late afternoon devolves into games of H.O.R.S.E. and Around the World, before Lena warns them that they've got about one hour left before arrival. Then the ball is packed up, the confetti cleaned up, and the cheerful mood takes on a more anticipatory edge.

Looking out the window Reinhardt can see nothing of the landscape. Night has fallen while none of them were watching; undoubtedly the jetlag will bother them tonight.

They are getting close. Reinhardt feels the first twinge of anticipation; he is ready to get off the plane.

In no time at all Lena's voice crackles overhead. " _We'll be landing in fifteen minutes, strap in loves! Could be a bit of a bumpy landing_."

The safety bars are pulled down over the top of them, and once again Brigitte begins to white-knuckle her harness at the first hint of turbulence.

Reinhardt places a hand on her knee. "It will be alright, _Shildlein_."

"I know," she says through gritted teeth. "I just _really_ hate this."

When the turbulence increases, she grabs his hand and squeezes it.

The Orca shakes in the crosswinds as they descend, and the roar of the thrusters increases as they fly ever lower. They're almost at ground level now, and Reinhardt can see the dim glow of fluorescent vests and waving beacons as air marshals direct them down. Lena skilfully reverses the thrusters and then powers them down slowly, and there's a gentle thump as the hover units engage.

They're down.

" _Alright team we've arrived in Krasnoyarsk! Thank you for flying Tracer Airlines, please come again!"_ Lena chirps, and then giggles before the intercom cuts off. The harnesses unlock, and she blinks down to join them as everyone rises from their seats.

Reinhardt slips his coat back on, for it looks dark and bitterly cold out there. In the fluorescent glow of the stadium-style lights he can see people milling in dark gray and green winter coats, black and gray _ushanka_ pulled low against the wind. He slips on his gloves for good measure.

"Is everybody ready?" Winston asks, looking very puffy in his winter coat and aviator hat.

There's a chorus of agreement, and then the hatch opens, letting in a blast of icy air.

There's a small cluster of people waiting just outside. When they descend the hatch, the leading figure raises its hand in greeting.

"Welcome, Overwatch!" a voiced boomed, heavily accented. "Welcome to Krasnoyarsk! I am Private Petrov of 4th squad, 10th Company. We will help you move cargo!" The voice is young, enthusiastic, clearly male. The whole group standing before them share approximately the same build: tall, broad, evidently the strongest soldiers.

Even as big as they are, Reinhardt still towers over them. He has the impression of several pairs of twinkling eyes staring up at him, before the whole lot were introducing themselves and clamoring for orders.

"Um, thank you!" Winston says, shaking the Private's proffered hand. "We're glad to be here. Come, this way…"

Reinhardt and Winston open the cargo doors, and in no time there is an orderly line of people carrying their gear over to several hover trailers. Torbjörn is supervising the loading of their weaponry, dispensing instructions for the more delicate items.

Reinhardt himself hefts some of the larger items and carries them to the trailers. He notices that there are several uniformed Russians standing around watching the proceedings, machine guns cradled loosely in their hands. Were they perhaps an armed escort?

In a blink the cargo bays are cleared out. A new soldier approaches, this one wearing the fluorescent colors of the air marshals.

"I am Marshal Baranov!" he shouts over the chattering of the Russian squad. "We will tow your plane! Pilot, please ensure thrusters are completely off before we move!"

Lena leapt forward with a quick salute, then trotted back aboard the plane. When she re-emerged she gave a quick thumbs up, and then Private Petrov began to speak again.

"Overwatch, please come this way," he gestures to an enormous armored truck, "we take you to your quarters now!"

They're loaded up into the armored vehicle, and as spacious as it is the ceiling is still a bit too low for Reinhardt's comfort. They and their small convoy of supplies are driven through a maze of tents, through a perimeter of barbed wire and eventually park in a small clearing in front of two modular barracks, where another small cluster of people awaits them.

Once disembarked, a slim man with a rather severe gray moustache steps forward.

“Welcome, Overwatch agents,” he says, voice clipped and sharp. “I am Major Apalkov, head of 10th company. I trust my men have been helpful?”

They all nod in agreement. Over Major Apalkov’s shoulder Reinhardt notices two other figures standing at attention. The one to the left dwarfs the Major, and it is a face he recognizes.

“Good.” Major Apalkov says, though he doesn’t sound glad in the slightest. “Tonight you must get situated here; my Lieutenants will attend you. Tomorrow we meet to discuss battle.”

By the coldness in his eyes Reinhardt guesses that this is one of the men more strongly opposed to their intervention here. Unfortunate. Over the Major’s shoulder he gazes at the familiar face again. Her expression is blandly neutral, but Reinhardt can see excitement dancing in her blue eyes. When she spots him looking, the faintest hint of a smile graces the corners of her lips, then vanishes.

“If you have needs, Lieutenant Zaryanova will attend you.” Major Apalkov gestures to his left, and the woman, Zaryanova - or should he call her Zarya? - flashes a quick two-fingered salute. _Ah, so that is how it is. This is a punishment for her, for daring to push her superiors._ “I have work still to do. _Da svidania._ ” And with that curt goodbye, he leaves.

As soon as the armored truck pulls away, Lieutenant Zarya steps forward. The severe aura dissolves, her posture relaxing and her mouth curving in a small, pleased smile. “Overwatch!” she booms, spreading her arms wide. “I am glad to see you here safely! Welcome to Krasnoyarsk Front!” Unlike her superior’s, Zarya’s welcome sounds genuine.

"You are Winston, yes?" she says, addressing the hulking scientist. "Now I have a face to put to all those emails!

"Yes, that's me," Winston says, shaking her offered hand. "It's nice to meet you, Lieutenant Zaryanova."

"Call me Zarya! Here we are equals." she exclaims.

Reinhardt steps forward to introduce himself, extending his own hand in greeting. "I am Reinhardt Wilhelm. Thank you for hosting us."

Zarya enfolds his hand in a grip just as firm as his own. "Reinhardt! Somehow I knew it must be you." She releases his hand and leans back, a speculative look on her face. "You are smaller than I expected."

By the twinkle in her eyes he can tell that she is jesting, so he throws back his head and laughs. She joins in on the mirth, chuckling and declaring, "Soon we must arm-wrestle, as promised!"

Ah yes, he had made that promise, hadn't he? Just after discussing their bench presses.

"But of course!" he agrees, thinking that perhaps the arm-wrestling will have to wait until after they complete the mission. It wouldn't do to go into the fight injured.

"Zarya, this is my squire, Brigitte. She maintains my armor, as well as our weaponry. And here is Lena-"

He helps to introduce Zarya to the rest of the team, keeping it brief when he sees some of them shivering from the cold.

“I am glad you are here,” Zarya says once she has greeted everyone. “We have much to speak of. But first, you are hungry after your long flight, yes?”

“Yes!” Brigitte answers enthusiastically.

"Good! Come, we move out of the cold." she gestures for them to follow her, and then turns to the man at her side and says something in Russian. The man nods and jogs ahead of them and out of sight.

They trudge past rows of prefab buildings, towards one large tent that is belching clouds of white steam from some vent in the ceiling. They're ushered inside to be greeted by a welcome warmth and the savory scent of food. Reinhardt's stomach makes its desires known by growling.

There's a serving line, headed by empty trays and containers of silverware and napkins. Two kitchen cooks, putting the final dish in the serving line snap to attention once they see Zarya and her entourage.

" _Spasibo!_ " Zarya calls to them, waving a hand at their salutes. " _Vot i vse."_

The cooks scurry off to the back of the kitchen, shooting curious looks at them as they go. Reinhardt feels a twinge of regret that he could not thank them personally for their work, but perhaps he will have a chance to later.

Zarya points out the various dishes to them as they go through the line.

"This _pechenochnyy pashtet_ is good. You will need protein for the upcoming fight!" she says as Angela used tongs to lift a square of something pinkish from a row of other pink squares. At her curious look, Zarya thinks for a moment, then elaborates. "I think you call this liver. Liver of chicken!"

Lúcio, about to take one of the slabs himself hesitates, shrugs and then loads it onto his tray.

Further down the line is a red soup with chunks of potato and carrot that he recognizes once Zarya labels it as 'borscht'. Even further are more recognizable foods; stewed cabbage and thick hunks of rough, brown bread. Two beverage dispensers sit at the tail end of the line, one filled with water, the other tea.

Reinhardt helps himself to a bit of everything and takes a seat with his comrades, waiting until they have all been seated before tucking in.

It would not be his first choice for a meal, but Reinhardt is quite hungry and the food is warm, and the hospitality much appreciated.

Zarya has not taken any food for herself, preferring to sit at the head of the table. She removes her _ushanka_ , revealing a crop of brilliantly pink hair.

This image of Zarya is so different than what he remembers from the news article that for a moment Reinhardt stares. It's not only the bubblegum brightness of her hair - jarring compared to the grayish backdrop of the building - it's her scar _._

Reinhardt has many scars. His body is a map, each raised strip of flesh a roadmark, a story. He can read wounds like a book. Zarya's scar is raised, not the pink of a newly healed wound but the dusky rose color of a months-old injury. It bisects her brow and skirts the corner of her right eye. It's not the pockmarked hollow of a bullet, nor the clean slice of a blade.

It's at just the right height that he can imagine a helmet superimposed on her head, the rim passing just over the bulk of the scar. He imagines hot shrapnel flying, catching just under that protective lip, metal cutting and burning as she tries to strip it from her head -

Zarya turns her head and he shifts his gaze away, lest she catch him staring so rudely.

Her appearance isn't the only thing that Reinhardt notices, however. As he eats he becomes aware of the silhouette of armed soldiers through the tent walls, illuminated by the fluorescent lights on top of the building. Zarya follows his eyes as he watches them.

"Guards?" he asks lightly. He would commend her on their thoughtfulness, though it does make him painfully aware of their gear, still stored on the hover trailers.

"Yes. For your protection," she says, and leaves it at that. Despite this he feels that there is something she is not saying, but he will not press her on it.

"Thank you for the meal," he says when he is finished. "and give my thanks to your cooks as well."

"Of course! They will be glad to know you liked it." she says. A few members of the team are finishing up their last bites, so she rises to address them again.

"Tomorrow we discuss the plan," she says, pulling her _ushanka_ back on. "I will bring breakfast, then we discuss with the officers our strategy. The rest of the day you have to maintain your weapons, armor and supplies. I will show you the armory, if you must fix something. Come, I will show you to your bunks."

They return to the same modular barracks the armored car had dropped them in front of, and Zarya points to one that has an orange strip of tape over the door. "This one is for the men." She points to the other, which has a white strip. "This one is for the women.

Zarya indicates a large tent just behind their barracks. "We will park the trailers in here once you have everything you need tonight."

They retrieve their bags from the trailers, then help Zarya and her soldiers shift the cargo into the tent, much to her chagrin - _"You are guests, you should not be working!_ \- before they bid her goodnight and file into their respective lodgings.

Zarya stops him with a hand on his arm as he goes by.

"Unfortunately I do not think our beds accommodate someone of your size, or Winston's," she says apologetically. "We put two together to try to help, though."

"It is not a problem. I have slept in army bunks before, I know how to adapt!" he replies with a wink, and claps her on the shoulder. "We appreciate any accommodations."

When he gets inside he sees that indeed they have pushed two bunks together, though not in the way he expects. They form a T-shape, offering more space for his legs to extend.

The other bunks are arranged side by side, evenly spaced with enough room to walk between them. There are six in all, not including the extra two for Reinhardt and Winston.

Torbjörn drops his bag on the bed next to Reinhardt's and begins rummaging through it, looking for his toiletries.

"So, what do you think about all this, eh?" he says in a low voice. Whether he doesn't want to be overheard by the others or by their guards Reinhardt doesn't know, but he takes on the same tone when he responds.

"They seem pleasant enough. Perhaps more guards than I was expecting."

Torbjörn snorts. "And the fact that Major whatever-his-name-was looked like he'd sooner shoot us than greet us didn't bother ya?"

Reinhardt shrugs, pulling free his pajamas. "I knew that not everyone here would be happy about our involvement. Perhaps he could have hidden it better, but I would rather know his feelings than be surprised later."

There is a small washroom just outside their sleeping area, and they all take turns performing their evening ablutions in the sinks before bedding down for the night.

Reinhardt lies awake in bed, listening to the quiet sounds of his teammates breathing. How familiar and strange it seems at once; it has been so long since has been in the company of anyone but Brigitte at night. Yet, he can clearly remember missions much like this, sleeping bags packed on the floor of the Orca or else piled in one hotel room, laughing and talking into the night like rowdy twenty-somethings. He had been a younger man, then.

He lies awake, drifting aimlessly through memories until at last he falls into an uneasy sleep. It's punctuated with strange dreams that he cannot remember, and though he wakes several times it is still jarring how long the night seems. It seems so long that he's a bit startled when a sharp rap comes at the door, and Zarya sticks her head through.

"My friends, it is time to get up! Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes!"

And then she is gone. By the speed at which everyone except Lúcio has gotten up and begun to change, it is evident that Reinhardt isn't the only one who was laying awake. Perhaps they were all trapped in the same limbo as he, afraid to get up lest they disturb their sleeping fellows.

They dress and have a quick meal of porridge and sausage which is brought to them on trays. Then they are ushered back to a vehicle which drives them through the forest of tents and out towards the edge of the city of Krasnoyarsk.

The field is alive with soldiers, tens of hundreds of people moving in and out of what must be the command center here. The building is huge and looks very old; it might once have been used for storage.

Zarya brings them inside, and then takes them into a side room where a small army of people with measuring tapes awaits.

"Apologies, we must do this first," she says. "Preparation, as requested by Winston, yes?"

_Ah, this must be for the IR shielding._

They are all measured accordingly; height, the circumference of their chests, waists, their inseams, their shoulders. Reinhardt has a brief mental image of them striding into battle wearing highly tailored reflective suits, before he quashes the thought.

Afterwards they're guided into a room with a large central holotable. It's filled with officers, who all turn as they arrive. Zarya salutes to them; they must be her superiors. She spits out a barrage of rapid Russian before one officer steps forward.

" _Generál ármii_ Ivanov _,"_ he says by way of greeting, nodding to them. "Overwatch, it is good you have come. These are my men," he gestures behind him and rattles off a list of names that Reinhardt has no hope of remembering. He instead memorizes the insignias on their pressed green uniforms; stars and stripes means Colonel, vertical stars means General.

Winston steps forward to introduce them, Reinhardt does not offer his hand as no one else seems inclined to shake.

Introductions taken care of, they settle down to business.

"This is a current map if the battlefield," Army General Ivanov says, indicating the holotable. There's a 3D projection of the omnium, the surrounding terrain, the jagged edge of where it meets the city. Superimposed over this is what looks like color-coded attack patterns and defensive lines, and glowing red clusters of what must be omnic activity.

“Their forces are strongest here,” Ivanov says, pointing at the red clusters and confirming Reinhardt’s thought. “They send advanced troops every few days. The main force is here.” He points to a space about a third of the way between the omnium and the city.

“We manage to keep them at bay, but we have no luck advancing. Their numbers seem endless, and we cannot touch the omnium.” Ivanov exchanges a significant glance with Winston. “That is why you are here.”

“Yes,” Winston acknowledges, looking over the map. “We have a plan to deal with the Titan, we just need to get close enough to enact it.”

“We can get you close,” Ivanov says, and taps something so that a glowing gold line appears on the holotable. “This is the path you will take. It is old sewage tunnel, goes right to the heart of the omnium.”

Torbjörn exhales a trifle louder than usual.

“While you go there, we will mount an attack,” the Army General hits a button again, and a glowing blue wave advances from the city towards the omnium. “It will distract the omnics from your movements, and draw the attention of the big one."

"And, when we've taken the Titan down?" Winston says.

Another button push, and the omnium dissolves in explosion of light.

"We will destroy it."

 

***

 

“The plan is simple, I will give them that,” Genji remarks lightly.

With the plan detailed, they had been dismissed from the command center with both plans for the sewer system and the information that Zarya would be accompanying them on their mission. It had not been a request; she was to be their guide to the omnium, as well as an apparent guarantee of their safety.

A simple plan indeed. Reinhardt knows that sometimes the simplest plans are best, but in this instance it seems rather risky to have no backup plan.

"They are foolish," Hanzo mutters to his brother, "if this is their only plan. They hinge too much on our success."

Reinhardt leaves the brothers behind to go to the tent and unpack his armor. Most of the agents are working on this already save Angela; she had requested to be taken to the medical tents, willing to offer her assistance to the soldiers there.

Brigitte is attempting to haul the protective cases of their armor out from the pile, and Reinhardt rushes to help her before she hurts herself.  

“Thanks!” she exclaims as he helps her lay the cases flat just outside the tent. “Thought I was gonna throw my back out.”

“You should have asked for help!” Reinhardt scolds.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Each piece of their armor is removed from the cases, inspected, polished, and interlocked until Reinhardt’s armor is in two pieces: the lower half, which he must slip on like a pair of pants, and the upper half which he will have to heft overhead to slide into tomorrow. A quick test of the rocket mechanism proves fruitful, and no joints squeak when they are moved.

Brigitte’s armor is built in much the same manner, and they stand the pieces side-by-side inside the tent for easy access the following day.

“Wow,” Brigitte says, inspecting their work. “This is like, really happening. It still feels kinda unreal.”

“Yes, it is happening. Missions are often like this; waiting around only to leap into action at a moment’s notice.” Reinhardt replies, laying his hammer lengthwise behind their armor.

“It’s just...crazy. This time tomorrow we could be fighting hordes of omnics!”

Reinhardt looks at his watch: it is 11:37. “I am more inclined to believe that we will be inside the sewer at this time tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well - you don’t know that there aren’t any omnics in the sewer!” Brigitte retorts. “What if we have to fight the whole way there?” she pantomimes swinging her mace.

“I should hope not. That would make our approach far less subtle.”

“Reinhardt, you don’t exactly _do_ subtle,” Brigitte says, and dances away when he attempts to put her into a headlock.

The rest of the day for Reinhardt is spent taking meals, planning with his teammates and even sparring with Brigitte. They clear a space in between the beds of the women’s barracks and spend a few rounds cycling through ground fighting, boxing, and wrestling. It feels good to move after the whole day of inaction yesterday. When Zarya peeks her head in and catches them at it, she is eager to try.

“I heard you are afraid to arm wrestle me old man, so I went easy on you!” she says when he pins her, just barely. He laughs and helps her up, clapping a hand on her back. Wrestling her had been like trying to wrestle down a bear; her brute strength was really quite something to behold.

“Afraid, me?” he says, puffing out his chest. “I don’t know the meaning of the word! We will arm wrestle, make no mistake. But first we must take down the Titan!” They shake on it in agreement before Zarya takes them to the kitchen for dinner.

The meal that night is somewhat subdued. Everyone talks quietly, or else is seemingly deep in thought. Once dinner is over, McCree slinks off to smoke a _cigarillo_ and Genji and Hanzo disappear like smoke on the wind. Angela has still not returned from the medical tents. Back in their barracks, Winston is deep in his pad, undoubtedly looking at the sewer plans with Torbjörn at his side. Lúcio and Brigitte are sharing a pair of earbuds, Brigitte nodding to the time of whatever song they’re listening to. Lena is outside, attempting a video call with Emily.

Reinhardt spends some time readying himself for bed and then neatly packing his bag, then takes some time to briefly look over the blueprints of the sewers Winston had forwarded them. They make little sense to him; without seeing them in the context of the omnium, he can’t guess at which branches they will take. He will have to trust that Winston, Torbjörn and Zarya know the way.

Sparring even seems to help with his jet lag, so that when at last darkness falls again Reinhardt finds it much easier to relax. He closes his eyes, feeling the insidious creep of sleep tugging at the edges of his thoughts. The murmuring of his friends becomes fuzzy and indistinct. Tomorrow a great battle awaits, and perhaps he should feel apprehensive, but right now he feels only peace. They have done all they can to prepare.

He will protect them, come what may.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spasibo - thank you
> 
> Vot I vse - that's all
> 
> pechenochnyy pashtet - liver pate, often made with chicken
> 
> Ushanka - a fur cap with ear flaps
> 
> Sorry my Russian readers, hope I didn't butcher your language too badly!


	21. The Art of War

 

_The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving on.  
~Ulysses S. Grant_

***

The moment her eyes open, Brigitte is awake. There is none of the usual muzzy fog of exhaustion and sleepiness, only sharp clarity and awareness.

She rolls over to check her pad: it’s 3:49, about forty minutes earlier than her alarm is due to go off.

There’s no way she’s getting back to sleep now, and they’re due to roll out at 5:30, so she gets out of bed as silently as possible and heads to the bathroom. A quick scrub of her face with a wet washcloth is all she has time for before her body realizes what day it is and her nerves catch up with her.

She emerges twenty minutes later feeling much lighter, only to realize that she's not the only one awake. Lena is curled up in her bed, scrolling through her dimmed pad. Angela is already up, changing into a black thermal underlayer.

"Oh, good. So it's not too early to get ready?" Brigitte says aloud, breaking the silence.

Lena sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "No way! Earlier is better, I reckon. Gives us time to test everything."

"Alright then," Brigitte says, and begins to change into her own underlayer. It's padded to protect against the friction burn the heavier pieces of her armor sometimes cause.

She pauses for a moment, debating about whether to put her wrist wraps on when her guts decide to take that moment to rebel and she has to run to the bathroom again.

"Pre-fight jitters?" Lena says sympathetically when she finally emerges.

"No!" Brigitte protests. "I'm not nervous at all!"

It's not a lie. Besides the squirrelly stomach she feels absolutely fine. Her mind is at ease, no nagging worries. If anything she's excited to get to it.

"Sometimes the body reacts to excitement in much the same way as it does to nervousness," Angela says, pulling on a thin pair of black gloves. "It's not unusual. And I rather think that in this case it's better out than in."

Brigitte, not wanting to continue this sort of conversation even with her doctor merely bobs her head in agreement and heads out the door. When she ducks through into the storage tent she sees Hanzo and Genji already inside, inspecting their weapons. They nod at her and she nods back before turning to her armor.

She shifts aside the small silver package atop the breastplate that is her IR suit; they had spent some time late last night trying them on. The suits are designed to fit while they are outfitted in their gear, so putting it on without had resulted in a pretty comical appearance for both her and Reinhardt. She had felt like a child dressed up in her parents' clothes, waddling around in all that sagging fabric.

She kicks the wrapped suit over next to Reinhardt's, then lays her armor out flat on the ground.

Getting into the bottom half of her armor is the most difficult part of gearing up. When she had first designed it she had needed help clicking each individual piece into place; the greaves, the poleyses, the cuisses, the sabatons. Now she leaves it assembled as one piece and wriggles into it like a worm entering a cocoon, and from there can adjust it accordingly.

Reinhardt arrives as she is sliding on her breastplate, and she chirps a cheery good morning at him.

“Wanna help me with these?” she asks, waving her tassets at him. He fastens one side while she does up the other, forming the skirtlike shroud of armor that hangs over each thigh. He likewise assists her with her pauldrons and rerebraces, stopping just before applying the couters so she has enough flexibility to help him into his armor.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks, clanking over to give him a hand up once he’s slipped into his leg armor.

"Yes, unusually so. The jetlag is often much worse," he says as she tightens the armor down.

Brigitte grins. "I think I might know the reason for that." She taps his leg, urging him to test his range of motion.

"Oh?" Reinhardt bends his knees in a squat, then kneels, then stands back up with a groan. "Perhaps a little looser on the left greave."

"Yeah, Lu told me he noticed once when he left his Crossfade suit on overnight he slept like a baby. He had his amp on for you guys overnight," she says, loosening the offending greave. "I slept really well when I had his speaker with me too," she taps his leg again.

"Lu, hmm?" Reinhardt says, lunging and flexing. His tone is playful, inquisitive. "That is a new nickname. What has inspired it?"

His prying isn't subtle, and she shoots a glance at the silent Shimada brothers. Undoubtedly they are hearing every word of this exchange, but they don't seem like the type to gossip. Still, she knocks a pauldron against his elbow and hisses, "Nothing!"

Reinhardt raises an eyebrow at her as he gets up, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Are you sure? You looked awfully cozy last night, listening to music together."

Brigitte feels heat rising in her face. Is that _really_ how her friendship with Lúcio is coming across? And had he been watching them? She thought he had been asleep!

"We were just relaxing, that's all!" she ducks her head to hide her blush under the pretense of tightening one of her tassets. "Besides, we're just friends. He shortens my name too, you know."

If anything that makes it worse. When she looks at him again Reinhardt is giving her a knowing look so smug that she wants to smack him.

"Oh c'mon!" she exclaims, and pushes him towards his breastplate. "It's not like I didn't notice you enjoying yourself in that wrestling match with Zarya yesterday." She has to flip the attention back to him before he _really_ digs in or he'll never let up.

Reinhardt pauses, partway through hoisting the breastplate. "What?"

"You know...you held that pin preeetty long at the end there."

"I-I-what?!"

Brigitte is so busy teasing him that she doesn't notice when Angela and McCree slip into the tent.

Reinhardt slides into the breastplate and Brigitte gleefully tightens the back of it, ducking out of his sight each time he tries to turn to confront her.

"Stop moving, you're making this difficult!" she scolds, then adds, "If I was Zarya I bet you would hold still." She has to hold back laughter at the sight of his face when he turns again, he's positively aghast.

" _You-_!" he exclaims, and it's on.

They bicker the entire time as the rest of their armor goes on, earning a few looks from Angela and Torbjörn as he walks in and hears them at it.

"Children," sighs Lena fondly behind them. Brigitte turns to see her outfitted in her winter coat, leather pistol harnesses strapped around her hips and thighs.

"He started it!" she mock-whines, playing up the childish antics. There's a clank of metal-on-metal as Reinhardt loops an arm around her neck and pulls her against him, mussing her hair with his knuckles.

"So this is the great Overwatch," Lúcio says from the mouth of the tent, shaking his head with feigned gravitas, "I am not impressed." He can't hold the serious expression for long before it cracks into a grin and he laughs at the state of Brigitte’s hair.

They _are_ being a bit silly, considering the seriousness of the occasion, but Brigitte thinks that might be the stress. Laughter and humor are some of the better coping mechanisms, in her opinion. She grins at him and slides out of Reinhardt’s grip, bending to grab the final component of her armor: her gauntlets. With those on she flexes her leather-clad fingers, the warming fabric losing its rigidity.

The wings of Angela's Valkyrie suit flare as she powers it on, bright feathers of light elongating and then shrinking as their generators adjust. Lúcio's skates glow green and then gold as he cycles through his speed and healing modes, sound silenced so he doesn't accidentally boost them. Reinhardt slides his helm into place and the eyes flash yellow as the Crusader armor comes online.

Hanzo tests the pull of his bow, then inspects the creamy fletchings of each of his arrows before returning them to their quiver. Torbjörn taps his foot, waiting for everybody to get ready. He's already outfitted with his rivet gun and forge claw, and if she knows her father he's already prepared his turrets as well. Winston is nowhere to be seen, but his Tesla Cannon rests on the floor just next to Reinhardt's hammer.

Clad in all her armor Brigitte actually feels warm enough to brave the Russian cold without a coat. She takes her mace outside and gives it a couple of practice swings, testing the snap of the flail. Even with the cold stiffening the mechanisms, it's response is good.

The morning is dark, but Brigitte thinks the sky might be lightening. She’s been up for what feels like an hour now, and she fumbles for her pad to check. Almost 5. It’s a little early for breakfast, but still she is hungry. She remembers how Reinhardt mentioned that they should eat light during missions, as dealing with the after-effects of large meals is troublesome, especially when clad in this amount of armor.

“Man…” she sighs. Hopefully once they get on the move she’ll be able to forget her hunger.

Brigitte joins the others back in the tent to put the finishing touches on their armor. Everyone else is putting their cold weather gear back on except for the Shimada brothers; Hanzo looks like he'll be mighty cold with his left side exposed like that. Genji is holding his coat out to him, shaking it insistently at his recalcitrant brother. The cyborg himself seems completely unaffected by the weather.

As a finishing touch to her ensemble Brigitte wedges her IR suit into the miniature tool bag she carries strapped to her hip. It's already overflowing because she has to carry Reinhardt's as well, him lacking any storage in his armor.

"Overwatch!" Zarya's voice booms from the mouth of the tent, and Brigitte turns to see her throwing the flap aside. "Are you ready to fight?"

Her appearance surprises Brigitte. No longer is she wearing her RDF uniform, instead she is outfitted in dark blue armor that covers every part of her but her arms, and Brigitte can see black ink crawling down Zarya's left shoulder, her forearms. She has what looks like weightlifting gloves on, and a black band strapped just above her right elbow that Brigitte recognizes as something that Reinhardt uses when his tendonitis is flaring up.

Mostly though she notices Zarya's weapon. It's huge and white, almost as big as the woman herself. It looks a lot like Winston's Tesla Cannon, but has a curious v-shaped break near the handgrips. Whatever it does, it looks like it'll pack a punch.

Winston comes living through the tent flap just a few seconds after Zarya arrives, nearly bumping right into her. He's already in his armor, and must have been for some time.

"Oh, excuse me!" he says, shying around Zarya to heft his gun in one large hand. "Sorry for being late. Was repositioning one of our satellites." Winston looks around at them, taking in the sight of his team which is looking expectantly back at him. "Are we ready to go?"

"Yes!" Reinhardt and Brigitte agree enthusiastically to a cheerful chorus from Lena, Lúcio and Angela, while the Shimada brothers nod and McCree flashes a finger gun at him.

"Okay then, lead the way Zarya," Winston says with a respectful nod.

Zarya leads them out and through the maze of tents. Brigitte turns to look as they go, watching their temporary home disappear around a corner. They'll be back to get everything, but she can't shake a strange feeling of unease.

Maybe it has something to do with the few armed soldiers watching them go by, or the near-complete absence of motion in camp. She realizes that the other soldiers must already be at the battlefield. Must have been for some time, in fact.

The feeling is forgotten when Zarya takes them to a makeshift road through the middle of camp where a canvas-lined military truck is parked.

"This will take us to the dropoff point," Zarya says, gesturing for them to climb into the back.

They pile into the truck's dark, musty interior, perching themselves along each side on bench-style seating. Brigitte is wedged between Reinhardt and her father, sitting across from Zarya who has propped her weapon between her legs. Winston crouches awkwardly at the back of the truck, unable to sit alongside them due to his massive girth.

" _Poyekhali!"_ Zarya calls loudly, slapping the metal shell that separates them from the cab of the truck. The truck rumbles to life beneath them, shaking like a miniature earthquake before evening to a purring rumble. It's been so long since she's ridden in a gas vehicle, Brigitte is momentarily startled by the noise and quaking, the loud rattling sound of her armor vibrating against Reinhardt's.

They truck trundles out of the camp, lurching and bumping onto the road. It moves ponderously, grinding through the track-ridden snow with infinite care. Brigitte knows from Winston’s debriefing that the omnium is maybe eight kilometers from them, the battlefield itself only four. They’re headed due east towards a water treatment plant that’s connected by sewer directly to the omnium.

"Alright, let's go through the plan one more time," Torbjörn says, breaking the silence. Brigitte wants to groan; they had beaten this to death the other day, but when Zarya leans forward eagerly she realizes this is her first time actually hearing the plan.

 _He's doing this for Zarya's benefit._ How thoughtful her Papa is.

"We got two objectives today," he continues, " the first is to take down the Titan, and the second is to shut down the omnium."

Zarya nods, then frowns. "I thought we will destroy the omnium?"

Torbjörn tugs the end of his beard. "Well, you can do that but not until we've shut down the fission reactor. We render the core inert, then you can blow it up. Until that happens, all you'll wind up doing is blowing yourself right into radioactive dust."

"But, Army General Ivanov said-"

Winston lays a hand on her shoulder. "I know the Army General laid out the plan for you, but I'm afraid he only gave the, uh, 'big picture'. I've been in contact with your army scientists and engineers and we all agree this is the safest way to handle it."

Zarya sits back, cradling her particle cannon. "Oh. I did not know there was so much more to this."

"It is alright, Zarya," Reinhardt speaks up, "it has been my experience that superior officers do not always burden themselves with the finer details of war. They entrust their subordinates to work those out."

Brigitte can hear her father breathe something under his breath about _'not sure nuclear holocaust is a fine detail'_ but it's too quiet to hear everything. Reinhardt's words seem to help her though, her eyes clear and she leans forward again.

"Anyway, as I was saying, once we get there we have to complete those two objectives. Now, we have two ways of going about it," Torbjörn holds up his claw and taps one pincer with a finger. "One: we can either try to shut down the omnium, then go for the Titan," he taps the other pincer, as if ticking off on his fingers, "or two, we can try to do both at once."

Winston picks up where Torbjörn leaves off. "We think that option two is going to be the safest bet. It's likely that there are still some omnics hanging around the omnium, not to mention the ones being constantly produced. If we get spotted trying to shut down the omnium without having gained control of the Titan, we're likely to have a world of trouble coming our way."

They all nod except Zarya, all of the information is old hat.

"So far we have Torbjörn, Brigitte, Genji and Lúcio set to infiltrate the Titan. The rest of us will head for the omnium, including you Zarya." Winston rifles through a compartment on his jump pack, and pulls out a small black earpiece. "Here, this is for you. It's a commlink set to our private channel. Since you're our only link to the RDF, we'll be relaying information to you through this during the battle to communicate back to them, okay?"

Zarya nods, taking the comm gingerly. It looks so small and fragile in her hands, and she fumbles with it a little before seating it in her ear. Winston shows her how to turn it on and how to use it, and when Zarya ducks her head her voice sounds clearly in Brigitte's ear.

"I like this," she says wonderingly. "Much easier than radios and operators."

Winston smiles. "We have an operator too. Say hi, Athena."

"Athena?" Zarya listens, and her eyes widen in shock. "A robot? Is omnic?"

"Oh, no. She's a computer program. I built her." Winston says, sounding like a proud father.

" _Anyway_ ," Torbjörn cuts in, interrupting the moment, "Winston's done his research and we're trusting you to have his back while he powers the omnium down. Once we get that done, the Titan will be disabled and your people can take over. Easy enough?"

Zarya nods again, a crisp motion that bounces her pink fringe. "Yes, thank you."

Plan taken care of, there's not much else to do other than wait for them to get to the dropoff. Brigitte cranes her head, wishing that there were windows on their covered truck. The back is open, but all it affords is a view of their supplies and some trees. There's no way to see the battlefield at all, and the rattles and squeaks of the vehicle drown out any chance of hearing the fight.

The water treatment facility is remote; the roads they're taking are bumpy and unmaintained, unused ever since the omnium shut down all those years ago. There's no way to even tell that they're getting close, at least not until the truck slows and turns into another road.

"We are almost there," Zarya mutters, shifting into alertness. Around her they all shift, eager to get on the move.

The truck cruises for another minute before slowing, turning, and coming to a stop. The engine cuts off.

"Let's go."

Outside Brigitte can see that the sky is turning a burnt orange, the blue-black of the night fading away. The sun is still hiding behind the horizon, but threatens to break through in the next hour. In the distance she can hear something, an odd thudding _._ The battle must be going.

"Alright, this way." Winston says, loping towards a wide single-story building frosted with snow. They tromp past it, skirting some wide circular holes that might have once been man-made waste ponds. They're headed towards one hole far larger than all the rest, a concrete lagoon.

“In here,” he says, hopping into it with a small burst of his jump pack. They follow him down into the depths and he reveals the mouth of a huge tunnel.

Judging by Winston’s size relative to the opening, it must be nearly nine feet in diameter; just tall enough to accommodate Reinhard, and wide enough that the smaller members can walk two by two inside.

“Well, that’s better’n what I was expecting,” Torbjorn says approvingly at the sight of it. “Won’t be up to our ankles in sewage at least.”

"Musta been a lot of water coming from the omnium, to need drainage that big," Tracer says, peering into the dark hole.

"Mostly graywater," says Winston. "Runoff from the machinery. All of it had to come here to be screened for nuclear contamination. In the event of a meltdown the amount of water needed to avert a nuclear crisis would have overwhelmed any other sewage plant." He sweeps and arm towards the blackness. "Lúcio, if you will?"

"Oh yeah, yeah," Lúcio says, skating to the front of the group and into the mouth of the tunnel. The glow of his suit and skates makes pretty decent lighting, but it doesn't illuminate more than ten feet in any direction. "Uh...anybody got a flashlight?"

"I do!" Brigitte picks through her toolbag and pulls out the mini-mag she always keeps in there, waving it at him. "But don't lose it!" She hands it over to him, and he clicks it on, shining it down the tunnel.

They line up behind him in a train, the shortest and the largest of them right at the front to take advantage of the speed boost's proximity, while the more fleet of foot follow behind.

"Alright everybody, I think we should start slow the first couple yards. Don't want anybody tripping over something in here," Lúcio warns, flipping the amp so it glows green. He raises the volume and as the music washes over them Brigitte can feel the familiar rush of energy take over her body, each muscle taut with the desire to _move._

They start by walking, each step quick and light despite the heaviness of her armor. The tunnel is smooth stone, stained dark in places from the water. The clank of their armor echoes as they make their way further in, and after thirty seconds of uninterrupted walking Lúcio's voice comes over the comm.

"Okay, I think it's safe to boost us a little faster. Everybody ready to jog?"

They acknowledge, and Lúcio cranks up the volume on his amp. The bass rolls through the stone tunnel, a beat that Brigitte can feel like the thrumming of her own heart. Energy crackles through her veins, and Brigitte breaks obligingly into a trot though she feels like she could sprint. The energy pounding through her, her team barreling like a locomotive through the sewer, she feels like she could run forever.

Lúcio gives call-outs as they begin to hit the ladders spaced at regular intervals, dodging around them with ease. Even Reinhardt, huge and hulking is fleet enough to skirt by.

They clip along at a respectable pace, and even though Lúcio's boost provides some extra oomph Brigitte can feel her stamina draining after about half an hour of running. As though he can read her mind, Torbjörn calls for a halt when they come to the next ladder.

"Need to check our progress," he says, ascending the ladder. He tips the manhole cover up an inch, peeks out and then lowers it gently.

"Still outside the omnium," he grunts. "Got another bit yet."

Brigitte feels an icy-hot sensation descend from her head down, like someone's cracked an egg on the top of her skull. She recognizes the sensation at the same time that she looks around; it's Mercy's healing beam, replenishing her stamina. The beam flickers between them, topping off their energy before they set off again.

They've only been jogging for another ten minutes when the first sound registers.

"Hold up!" Torbjörn calls, and they clatter to a halt. He cocks his head, listening and Brigitte follows suit. After a few seconds the sound comes again: a hollow coughing thump, followed by the slightest vibration all throughout the tunnel.

"Rockets," Torbjörn says grimly. "We're getting close."

Through the tunnel they go, slowing down to a walk under Torbjörn's direction. The thudding becomes louder and louder until-

_BOOM!_

Something shakes the tunnel with enough force to send fine grit down on top of them, the sound scaring Brigitte such that she jumps.

"Alright, suits on everyone," Torbjörn says, completely unruffled.

Pulling the shielding on over her armor is tough: it fits snugly now, and as she kneels to help Reinhardt with his she can feel the material stretching taut. When they’re all dressed they look like nothing so much as a bunch of old-timey astronauts in silver space suits, except for the weapons they're clutching.

They walk towards the next ladder cautiously, and once again Torbjörn ascends it and peeks through the opening.

"Alright, this is our stop," he says, voice buzzing through the comm. "Change of plans: archer, you're coming with us. Genji, you go with the others."

Hanzo and Genji nod, unquestioning though by Hanzo's expression he looks discomfited. Torbjörn slides aside the heavy manhole cover with a grunt, and then comes back down the ladder.

"There are a few omnics hanging around the direction we need to go," he says to Hanzo. "You think you'll be able to hit targets in that getup?"

Hanzo inspects the mitten-like covering on his hands. "Yes."

"Alright then, you'll be up first. They're due east; you'll see 'em when you get up. The rest of you-" Torbjörn turns to the six remaining agents, "-a bit further down you should come to a maintenance hatch of sorts. Should be big enough to get through, but if you get into any trouble let us know."

"Roger!" Tracer chirps, flashing a salute with a pistol. "You lot take care of yourselves up there!"

"Athena, split-group channels now, please," Winston says.

The sight of the other agents turning to leave triggers a curious sense of loss and worry inside Brigitte. She had known this was coming, that they would have to split up. But now that it's actually _time_ she doesn't want to see them go. She knows that there is a chance that she could never see any of them again.

She reaches out to tug at Reinhards' arm as his back turns toward her, and he pauses, looking back.

"Uh…" she hadn't actually thought of anything to say. What do you say to your best friend if you think it could be the last time you ever see them?

_See you soon?_

No, that's too flippant.

_Be safe?_

He already knows that.

_I love you?_

That one stops her short. Where did that come from? It's true though, he's as dear to her as her own father. But she can't say it, not here in front of the other agents. It would be weird, and besides it sounds too fatalistic.

A hand touches her pauldron. "Brigitte?"

_Oh, right._

"Uh-save a few omnics for me, alright? It won't be fair if you guys take them all out yourself!" she calls with mock-bravado, clasping her hand on his forearm.

"Ha-ha! It will be your own fault if you are too slow!" he answers, roaring laughter and clasping her arm back.

"Most kills gets to pick dinner when we get home?" Brigitte says, inspired. A goal. _We will make it home_.

"You're on!"

She watches his retreating back until her father waves her up the ladder. When she emerges from the hole she can see high gray walls, and the crumpled bodies of three omnics maybe fifteen yards away from them, each with a pale arrow sprouting from their heads.

The boom of the rockets is so much louder up here that it was in the sewer, each burst of fire seeming to shake the very air. Eyes following the direction of the shots, she's stunned to see the Titan _right there,_ almost right on top of them.

It's huge and dark, hanging like a cloud in the pre-dawn; flat metal reflecting the sky in sinister camouflage. Humanoid in shape except for two massive cannons sprouting from its shoulders, it's unmoving except for occasional flashes of red light and bursts of smoke as it rains a hail of projectiles down on the Russians.

Torbjörn waves towards them to follow him down a corridor to the corner of the nearest building. Hanzo peeks around the side first, an arrow nocked in his bow. He draws and fires twice and then nods the all-clear.

Just around the corner is the Titan's foot, large as a bus. It's flat, and angular, just short enough that she and her father will be able to scale it. Brigitte can do nothing but gape at the size of it for a second, eyes following it up and into the heavens. It's so high she has to crane her neck all the way back to take it all in.

She begins to realize the enormity of their task; they're supposed to take down _that?_ All at once she's absurdly grateful that her Papa is there to guide them.

Lúcio speeds them towards the foot and Hanzo scrambles up first, followed by Torbjörn and then Lúcio. Brigitte takes up the rear, darting her eyes around watchfully. She helps boost her father up a hinged ankle joint that's at least a meter high, following hot on his heels to a flat panel on the outer side of it's leg.

"Good, it's still here," Torbjörn remarks and wedges his fingers and claw under the edges of the panel. He lifts it, red light spilling out onto their feet. "Alright, everybody in."

Brigitte has to slide in feet-first, too tall to comfortably hunch her way inside. She slides into the maintenance room, which is barely big enough to fit the four if them. Once inside, they shed their shielding like silver snakeskins, dropping them onto the floor and kicking them out of the way.

There's a yellow-painted ladder ascending the inner portion of the Titan's leg, and Torbjörn gestures at it with a jerk of his claw.

"We'll take this up. There's gonna be sentries up ahead, so keep your weapons ready. Destroy anything that moves, we don't want any alarms being raised," he says, and begins to climb the ladder.

_Ugh, ladders._

Brigitte scurries up behind Hanzo, while Lúcio opts to jump from wall to wall, skates clinging gecko-like to whatever they touch. From above the hard punching sound of Torbjörn's rivet gun echoes in the confined space as he meets the first resistance.

Brigitte clambers off the ladder and stands up just in time to see a small dronelike _thing_ flying towards her face, yellow lights beginning to cycle red. She fells it with one swing of her mace and raises her shield, metal shifting as the generators kick on and the blue barrier springs into being.

Another quick blast from Torbjörn's weapon draws her attention, and she turns to see him reducing another drone to pieces with a quick shot. Hanzo picks off the remaining drone with an arrow, then there is silence.

"Expect more things like that ahead," Torbjörn says.

It becomes a rhythm; climb the ladders, destroy drones and cameras, sometimes both at the same time. The Titan is so tall that it takes them almost half an hour before they emerge to a landing surrounded by a network of pipes; these hiss with each concussive burst from the rockets, which inside the Titan sounds like the distant knocking of a fist on metal. The door between them and the control center is painted a bright, cautionary yellow, and to the right of it a palm reader.

Torbjörn unhooks a turret from his back and tosses it squarely in the middle of the landing, bringing it into working order with a few whacks of his hammer.

"That should lead us up to the control center," he says, pointing his claw at the door. "Once we clear that I'll take over."

He goes to the scanner and rips the plating off of it, revealing a nest of cables. Skillfully he strips and clips, exposing the shiny copper insides of two wires. "You'll want to stand clear of the door, and get that shield up!" he calls over his shoulder, and then touches the exposed ends together. There's a spark, and the door slides open.

A flurry of gunfire fills the room with a crazy, bouncing echo. Hanzo and Lúcio duck behind Brigitte's shield, and she can feel the sharp _ping_ of bullets striking it as they ricochet of Torbjörn's turret, which makes quick work of whatever is behind the door.

Once the bullets stop flying they advance forward cautiously, and Brigitte can see the chewed-up corpse of another turret.

"Automatic defenses," Torbjörn grunts and walks inside, kicking the bullet-riddled metal aside. "Should be the only big thing left between us and the control center."

The sentry rotates watchfully as they leave the landing behind, ascending a set of stairs that leads from the split-level landing up to what Brigitte sincerely hopes is the last ladder. This entryway is even smaller than the rest, and the back of her pauldron and breastplate knocks against the protruding pipes as they climb.

"Here we are," Torbjörn says, grimly pleased. They're in a hall lined with identical slate-gray machines festooned with meters and dials, pipes overhead as thick as her waist. One more door faces them and with it another palm-reader.

He takes this one apart in the same way, but this time when the door slides apart there's no turret waiting on the other side. Instead there's the command console and a padded seat angled up to face a massive viewscreen.

"Watch the door," he says, gesturing at them. "Doubt anything'll get past my turret, but you can't be too careful."

He takes a seat and tinkers with the controls, forcing a manual override of the omnic programming. He gazes up into the viewing screen and examines it for a moment, then begins to fire.

"What are you doing?" Hanzo asks sharply.

"Have to move this thing. If it goes down on top of the omnium it's liable to send the whole thing critical, and I can't move it til the other team is done. Gotta play along like it's still attacking." Torbjörn ducks his head, speaking into the comm, "Athena, patch us through to the other group now." A moment's pause, and then, "How's it coming down there?"

Winston's voice crackles in Brigitte's ear, cutting in and out. "Inside the- nium now, we'v- -some resistance."

Torbjörn curses under his breath. "We're stuck for the moment. Once I move it the enemy is going to catch on."

"Can you not just raze them where they stand?" Hanzo asks. "If the Russians cannot destroy this, then how could the omnics?"

Torbjörn shakes his head. "They can't destroy it, but they can override me once they realize what's happened. It'll take them a few minutes, depending on how sophisticated their programs are but I can't risk it."

For the first time today Brigitte feels nervous. Her stomach twists with worry; she wonders how much resistance the other group is facing. She wishes she could be there right now, helping. She hopes someone is watching Reinhardt's blind side.

_Stop thinking about it. They've worked with him far longer than you have!_

To distract herself she looks at the viewscreen. From this high up she can see the battle clearly; what looks like swarms of black ants advancing from the omnium towards huge barricades set up by the Russians. The snowy field is punctuated by explosions, smoking lumps and flashes of light, but she's too far away to see what's doing it.

Torbjörn is firing the weapons, still keeping up the pretense of being on the attack. Red bolts and rockets hit wide of the barricades, sending huge plumes of snow into the air. Once or twice they strike a little closer than Brigitte expects, showering the RDF's defenses with white.

Hanzo paces the small command room like a tiger, eyes flicking between the viewscreen and the door out. Lúcio surreptitiously boosts his healing aura, and Brigitte can feel the warmth of it trying to smooth the raw edge of her nerves.

Finally, the comm flickers back to life.

"Omniu- -ering down now, you- -lear to go." Winston is still fading in and out, but it sounds like he's giving them the all-clear.

"What?" Torbjörn says, head bowed. "Is that a go?”

“Athena, can you boost the signal at all?” Lucio asks, and receives a soft, almost musical negative.

“It sounded like he said we were clear to go,” says Brigitte, a tad nervous. This is one thing she absolutely doesn’t want to be wrong about.

“I heard that as well,” agrees Hanzo.

“-o for it!” Tracer’s voice punches through the static, erasing their doubt.

“Okay, hold on tight!” Torbjörn says, and takes control of the Titan’s limbs.

The Titan must have great stabilizers, because even with such monstrously huge steps Brigitte can hardly feel that they’re moving. Only the battlefield coming closer and closer in the viewscreen tells her that they must be travelling a great distance. They rush toward the battle, and as they do Torbjorn calls out: “Okay, I’m goin’ ta bring it down just past the omnic line. There’s an emergency exit on the roof, I’ll spring it just ‘afore we’re grounded!”

“Right on!” Lucio says, and then adds, “do some damage before we go!”

“Yeah, yeah, on it.”

Scant seconds later they’re on top of a swarm of omnics. The massive feet of the Titan come down on their milling bodies with a screeching crunch of metal, and not even the stabilizers can compensate for the uneven terrain. Torbjörn wheels the Titan before they can go down, taking it west along the omnic line, crushing and shooting as he goes. Red beams burn huge swathes along the ground, tearing up snow and dirt and obliterating everything in its path.

The Titan wrecks havoc on the enemy line for another minute before Torbjörn pushes them towards the RDF line with a grunt. “They’re trying to take it back. Time to go.” He brings the Titan to its knees and props its cannons against the ground, locking them to prevent them from toppling forward and then pushes a fat red button on the left side of the console.

There’s an explosive blast of air as a hatch above them blows open, and a ladder telescopes down, hitting the floor with a _clunk._ Torbjorn squeezes a sliding lever just to the right of the seat, pushing it forward until it sits as far forward as it’ll go, and there’s a hollow sound as the Titan powers down.

“Ejecting the power core,” Torbjorn says over the comm, pulling a yellow-striped handle out of the console, rotating it and then pushing it back in. “Now they can’t just bring it back online. Alright you lot, up the ladder.”

“Exiting the Titan now,” Hanzo warns, and then scampers up. Everyone else follows suit, and when Brigitte emerges out into the cloudy pink-shot sky she's momentarily struck by vertigo when she peers over the edge of the Titan. Even bent in half it has to be at least twenty meters to the ground.

She watches Hanzo clamber down, agile as a dragonfly with Lúcio following more slowly in his wake, weaving back and forth like a skier down the humped mountain of the Titan's body. She and her father shuffle down using the raised plate ridges at footholds until the angle becomes too steep. Transitioning to scooting along on their butts isn't dignified, but it is more secure.

Brigitte winces as her armor screeches against the hull, thinking about all the buffing and re-painting she's going to have to do later. Near the edge the descent becomes near-vertical. There's two options here: make a jump for one of the Titan's protruding ankles, or a drop straight to the ground.

She opts to jump for the ankle, dangling herself from a ledge before freefalling the remaining six feet and landing hard. A shock of pain runs up her legs, but when she tests them she can't find anything broken. She turns back to wait for her father.

Just in time to see him miscalculate his jump, hit the edge of the Titan's ankle and fall.

It's a long way to the ground. Brigitte watches it happen, as if in slow-motion. Her arm reaches out, but she's too far away to grab him. He goes past, silent, but she can see his eye widening, a pale hazel ring of dawning fear.

A wave of sound crashes over her, under her, around her and Lúcio cuts below them in a green flash. A shockwave of sound blasts Torbjörn from below, stopping his descent dead three meters from the ground before gravity takes over and he falls the rest of the way down.

"Papa!" she cries, unable to help herself. She runs the rest of the way down the Titan's leg, jumping from its foot and rolling to absorb her momentum in a mad dash to her father.

Hanzo and Lúcio are already at his side, helping him to his feet when she reaches him.

"Are you okay?" she asks, frantic, touching his arm.

There's snow all over his beard and he's wincing like something hurts, but he stretches and turns, testing his limits even as Lúcio switches his song, a warm rush of music soothing away the lingering sparks of pain in Brigitte's legs.

"Ye, I'm alright," Torbjörn answers, arching his back. "Nothin' broken. A bit of a hard landing, but it could've been worse." He turns to Lúcio. "Thanks. I'll be owin' ya a drink when we get back, for savin' my sorry hide."

Lúcio rubs a hand on his neck, bashful at the gratitude. "Not a problem, man." He's saved further awkwardness when Genji's voice comes over the comm.

"We are headed out of the omnium now," he says, and this time the transmission is crystal-clear. "I have eyes on your position."

"Acknowledged," Hanzo replies. He casts a questioning glance at Torbjörn. "Should we go to meet them?"

"Wouldn't hurt," Torbjörn grunts. "I'm fine to get a move on."

Lúcio switches them to speed, and then instantly cringes when he tries to move forward. "Aw man, these are _not_ made for snow." He clomps along, kicking up sprays of white.

Brigitte hadn't realized at the time how much distance from the omnium they had gained; they must have covered at least two kilometers. The others are specks so tiny she can barely see them. Genji must have eyes like a hawk.

Minutes later they've drawn close enough to be within shouting distance. Reinhardt charges the final ten yards toward them like a bullet train, cutting off his rockets scant feet in front of them and showering them with snow.

"Well done my friends!" He booms, swinging his hammer head-down and leaning on it like a walking stick.

Winston lands next to him, a hard thump in the snow. "Did you guys have any trouble?"

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Torbjörn says, reloading his rivet gun. "Sounds like you did though. Transmission was pretty spotty there for awhile."

"I think something in the Titan might have been disrupting the signal," Winston says. "Once you guys were out you came through loud and clear."

Mercy wings toward them, a boost from her Valkyrie suit taking her to Winston's side at the same moment that Tracer blinks up to them. McCree lags behind, puffing and blowing breaths like an old bellows.

"God-damn," he pants as he finally makes it to them, bent over his knees, "I need to take up joggin'."

Now that they're together again Brigitte feels like she can breathe easier. Tension slips from her, and at once she becomes aware of the steady chatter of gunfire in the distance. The RDF is still mopping up the stragglers.

"So," she says to Reinhardt with a grin. "Looks like I might win." She gestures to the swathe of metal corpses, crushed in the wake of their attack. "I think we had to have killed at least two hundred."

"That does not count!" Reinhardt protests, elbowing her good-naturedly. " _Individual_ kills!" She rolls her eyes, and turns to see Zarya fiddling with her radio. The barks something into it that Brigitte can't understand, and after a few seconds a staticky reply filters through.

"There is something wrong," she says, frowning. "They say there are lights coming from the omnium."

Everyone turns to Winston, except for Genji who looks back the way they had come.

"We only shut down the reactor, correct?" Mercy says, "Not the whole plant?"

"Right," Winston agrees, pulling out his pad.

"So, lights would not be unusual?"

"I don't believe so. Some of the machines may still be on backup generators anyway."

Zarya relays this through the radio.

"Should we go back?" Tracer asks.

"I don't think-"

"Something is happening," Genji interrupts, low and urgent at the same moment that Zarya's radio crackles again.

Brigitte turns to look where Genji is staring. The omnium is situated on a slight slope, so it takes a moment before she sees it. What she thought were the gray walls of the omnium are moving, elongating down the hill.

A wave of omnics pours towards them, red eyes glowing in the dawn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poyekhali! - Let's go!
> 
> Next chapter coming in two weeks, it'll be a long one!


	22. The Face of the Enemy

 

_As someone wise once said, "There is a quiet dread before battle." It comes from the secret fear of knowing what your enemy is capable of doing to you._

_But it is important to put fears aside and remember why we fight._

_~ Isaia, "The Face of the Enemy"_

_*********_

 

_"Athena, split channels please."_

Now they are truly separated. There will be no cross-chatter while they go their own ways, until they are again reunited. Reinhardt turns to follow his team down the tunnel and feels something touch his arm.

Looking back he sees it is Brigitte.

 _"_ Uh… _"_

She looks like she wants to say something. The silence draws out, unbroken as he waits for her to speak. Her face is a mixture of emotions he cannot untangle, but which he understands perfectly. She is afraid of the separation.

Reinhardt feels a touch of fondness for her, and reaches out to touch her pauldron. "Brigitte?"

She starts, pulled out of her thoughts. "Uh - save a few omnics for me, alright? It won't be fair if you guys take them all out yourself!" She smiles at him, clasping his forearm. He feels a curious mental doubling, as if a memory is overlaying his vision.

 _Live with honor_.

 _"_ Ha-ha! It will be your own fault if you are too slow!" he exclaims with a laugh, gripping back firmly.

 _"_ Most kills gets to pick dinner when we get home?" she asks. _A contest_? He cannot resist such a wager!

 _"_ You're on!"

Their groups separate, half of them disappearing up the open manhole cover while the rest of them walk towards their exit point. Reinhardt’s team is unhurried, planning on giving the other group time to infiltrate the Titan before they themselves enter the omnium.

They walk for ten minutes until at last the manholes disappear and they are left walking down a tunnel that dead-ends in two enormous steel doors. The steel has long since rusted, and when Winston wrenches at the handles they give way with a screech and an explosion of rust.

"Uh, that _might_ have alerted every omnic within a kilometer," Tracer jokes as Winston wipes reddish particles from the clear visor of his suit.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pull that hard."

Tracer leads, first peeking her head out the door and then dashing into the omnium. She returns in a blink, space-time warping in a flash as she rematerializes. "There are a couple omnics scattered in each direction," she says. "Nothing I think we couldn't handle. Lead the way, big guy."

Winston heads out, followed closely by Reinhardt. Bound as they are by the IR shielding, he has no access to his shield. He will have to rely on his hammer and the skill of his companions, who are likewise hampered.

They round the corner of the building. Tracer leaps ahead to blast one of the two omnics stationed there right in the back of it's processor. It goes down in a heap, while Genji finishes off the other with a swift swing of his sword.

There is no other sign of omnic motion, though that means little. Reinhardt cannot hear much within this suit, so he glances around often as they make their way to the center of the omnium. He tries not to look at the behemoth hovering over them, or wonder if they are about to wind up smashed into the concrete. He wonders how the others are doing.

"This is it," Winston says, indicating a tall central building that sprawls across a good portion of the omnium. They make for a set of doors that bear a symbol very familiar to Reinhardt; the yellow and black fanlike trefoil.

[ **DANGER! IONIZING RADIATION** ] is printed in bold letters beneath the symbol.

Winston jiggles the door handles, which do not shift. It is locked. He pulls at them, to little effect. He raps a hand lightly on them, as though politely asking for entry, and the dull sound that the motion elicits tells Reinhardt that the doors are thick, heavy-duty metal.

This is an obstacle they had considered - a door that they cannot open. They pause, waiting for the sign.

After several long minutes, it comes. The volley of explosions coming from the Titan pauses for a moment, then resumes. Their cadence has changed slightly, with longer pauses between each assault. Athena’s voice sings through their headsets: Torbjörn has taken control of the Titan.

“Great!” exclaims Tracer, poised to unzip her suit. “That means we can take these off now, right?”

Winston nods, unzipping his carefully and stepping free. When it spurs no attack from the Titan, he gives everyone else the thumbs up.

Getting into his suit had been enough of a hassle as it was, and Reinhardt asks for Genji’s assistance in getting rid of his. With three neat slices, the suit falls away from him and he can pull off the visor. He hadn’t realized how unbearably hot it had become in the shielding until the cold Siberian air begins to filter through the minute breaks in his armor.

"Reinhardt?" Winston turns to him, gesturing towards the door. "if you will?"

He will be glad to.

Reinhardt charges through the doors like a bull released from its cage, and the hinges give way before the lock does. The doors are ripped off the concrete in one neat slab. He cuts his momentum and sees that he’s mowed down two omnics that were just on the other side of the threshold. The red glow of eyes on him lets him know that they are not alone.

“More omnics in here!” he shouts, bringing his hammer down on the closest of them.

Tracer buzzes in after him, the rapid chatter of her pulse guns a counterpoint to the hard click of McCree’s six-shooter as he rolls in after her, shots finding their marks. Zarya fires up her own gun in a burst of purple, a dazzling beam of light as sharp as a laser burning the first omnic she gets close to.

Genji and Winston bound ahead, scaling walls and walkways to hunt down omnics from above, while Mercy wings after them on a glowing tether.

“How- it -ing down there?”

Torbjörn’s voice is on the comm now, fuzzy with interference. He must have re-established the group link.

It is Winston who answers, puffing as he leaps from a walkway onto the head of an omnic aiming for Mercy. "Inside the omnium now, we’ve met some resistance."

No answer from the other end. Perhaps their connection has dropped. Does the ionizing radiation interfere with transmission? Reinhardt doesn’t worry about it, too focused on crushing the opposition.

Mopping up the omnics inside takes them some time, though the enemy is too scattered to form a coherent opposition. Their teamwork is impeccable. Even Zarya, who has never trained with them learns quickly how to avoid zapping the more mobile members of their group. She stands, particle cannon at the ready and looking satisfied at the singed wreckage of an omnic she has destroyed.

“Alright everyone, give me a few minutes. I’m headed to the control room,” Winston says, disappearing.

Now it is up to him.

Reinhardt waits, poised to act in case any more enemies emerge, but none are forthcoming. The RDF has thoroughly distracted the ones outside. In the silence, there is nothing to do but wait.

To one side Zarya fiddles with her gun, inspecting a glowing plate on its top. He goes to her, watching curiously.

“You have a fine weapon,” he says. “I have not seen anything like it before!”

“Thank you,” she rests the tip of her weapon on the floor. “It is new technology, very effective. Not strong at long range though.”

Reinhardt laughs and waggles his hammer. “I can understand that!”

Zarya smiles, fingering the trigger of her weapon. “I prefer the close fight. It is better, to meet your enemy face-to-face and best them.”

Ah, so her attitude towards war matches his own. He nods his agreement.

“None of these tactics the omnics use. Attacking at night, while people are sleeping. To fight when your opponent is unaware, it is wrong,” Zarya continues. From the tone of her voice, Reinhardt thinks that she may be talking about something other than just the war. He remembers the armed guards, following them everywhere throughout the camp. Guards stationed outside their tent all night. Guns loosely cradled everywhere they went.

He leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Has something happened, Zarya?”

Her eyes widen, a flash of guilt and surprise crossing her face. "What do you mean?" she says. Whatever it is it must be bothering her greatly, but it seems she is reluctant to talk about it. He may have to coax it out of her.

"I had noticed how well-guarded we were upon arrival," he said carefully. He hazards a guess. "Have the omnics been attacking at night?"

"They attack day and night," Zarya answers. "The enemy does not sleep." Reinhardt notices that it is not precisely an answer to his question, and prys further.

"What dishonorable thing have they done?" he says, thinking hard. War omnics do not understand the concept of honor or fairness. Even if they did, they have chosen to shirk such qualities in every engagement Reinhardt has experienced. So what could they have done that would shock Zarya in this way?

The corner of Zarya's mouth draws down, bespeaking of her inner conflict. "I am not supposed to talk of it," she says slowly.

Reinhardt, sensing an opening presses again. "Zarya, you must know that we of Overwatch operate outside the jurisdiction of any nation. We do not trade secrets, or spread information outside the organization. Whatever has happened, perhaps if we know we can find a way to help."

Zarya is silent for a moment. From the twitch of her eyes back and forth, Reinhardt can see that she is considering his words carefully. He waits, letting the silence fall comfortably between them. Any interruption at this juncture will drive her away. He goes back to watching Mercy, who is talking quietly with an alert Genji. McCree is refilling his empty speedloaders, and Tracer stands poised at the doorway, peering outside.

At long last, Zarya speaks.

“There was an attack,” she says, so quietly that he has to lean in closer to hear. “About a month ago. Assassins came, they tried to kill Katya Volskaya.”

Alarms go off in Reinhardt’s head. Assassins? It may be his history with them, but anytime he hears ‘assassins’ he immediately thinks ‘Talon’. He searches his memory, trying to place this Katya Volskaya. The way Zarya speaks her name, he feels he should know her, but he comes up blank.

“Who is Katya Volskaya?” he asks.

Zarya looks at him, a hand absentmindedly stroking the handle of her weapon. “She is the hero of the Russian people. Our defender against omnics. She gave us the _svyatogors_.”

This is all news to Reinhardt. During the Omnic Crisis, Russia had steadfastly refused all offers of assistance. They had kept the news of their casualties, and their victories silent. It had been a great surprise to him when the word came that they had managed to defeat the omnic armies advancing on their cities. This closed-lipped past meant that he knew little of the methods that the Russian Defense Force had used to overcome the omnic threat...but now, he had a window in. This Katya Volskaya, she must have had a big hand in either designing or manufacturing the giant mechs he had seen in camp.

“So, assassins came?” he says. “Do you know what they looked like? How many?”

Zarya nods. “There were three that came. One that disabled the machinery in Volskaya Industries, one that disappeared and reappeared like smoke, and one marksman who no one saw. The sniper missed the shot, _slava bogu._ ”

The alarm bells are clanging now. An intruder that can vanish like the wind? A sniper? It _must_ be Talon. But why?

“I believe I may know who attempted this assassination,” he says. “I cannot be certain, but it sounds very much like the work of Talon. They are a known terrorist organization, who have opposed Overwatch for years.”  

“Talon? What -” Zarya begins, but is interrupted when the reactor makes a strange sound. A loud hum like an airplane’s engines vibrates the building for several seconds before dwindling back into silence. The lights inside flicker. Somewhere above, a door bangs open and Winston leaps down to join them.

“You got it?” Tracer says excitedly, dashing in circles around him.

“Yes!” Winston says, and ducks his head “Omnium powering down, you’re clear to go.”

That’s the cue for the other team to leap into action, taking the Titan away from its guarding place and down towards the battlefield.

“What?” Torbjörn’s voice again, the static thicker now. “ -tha - go?”

“We seem to be experiencing technical difficulties,” Genji says. "Perhaps we should get closer." He steps out of the building, perhaps thinking that less walls between them and the others will aid their communication. The rest of the group follows him. Reinhardt looks up at the Titan, wishing there were a window that they could signal through.

“I don’t know,” says Winston fretfully. “Athena, can you track -”

“ _Go for it!_ ” Tracer interrupts, elongating and shouting the words into the comm as though she can punch them through the earpiece with the force of her will.

Silence. _Did it go through?_

Zarya gasps as the Titan, which until then had been still suddenly lurches into motion. With great, earth-eating strides it leaves them behind, headed directly towards the battlefield. _Message received._

"Do not worry," Reinhardt reassures her. "Torbjörn has it under control." He can hear a distinct change in the frequency of the shots coming from the battlefield as the Titan approaches, and adds, "you may want to let your superiors know that."

Zarya nods and interrupts the chatter coming from her radio to bark the information while the rest of the team follows the Titan in hot pursuit, exiting the omnium at high speed.

Even though he knows it is Torbjörn piloting the Titan, Reinhardt still feels a frisson of awe and fear at the sight of it in action. The ground shakes with each step the Titan takes, toppling omnics into the snow as it comes up on them. Then Torbjörn begins to fire the guns.

"Wow!" Tracer breathes, watching the carnage unfolding.

"I do not think they will need our help," Genji says, amused. "A pity." He sheathes his blade and begins to jog towards the fight. Mercy shakes her head at his enthusiasm.

It doesn't take long for the Titan to turn the battlefield into a wasteland. Massive feet have churned the snow and dirt into mud, and the Titan's powerful guns have left smoking pits everywhere. The enemy is almost completely decimated by the time Torbjörn sets the omnic down a few hundred yards from the barricades.

“We are headed out of the omnium now,” Genji tells them. “I have eyes on your position.”

The running forms of the other team are tiny and distant at first. When at last they're within hailing distance, Reinhardt can’t stop himself from grinning like a lunatic under his helm. He cheerily charges the remaining distance, showering them in a spray of snow.

“Well done my friends!” he exclaims.

Winston lands at his side. “Did you guys have any trouble?”

Torbjörn reloads his rivet gun, seeming almost bored. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.” He looks up at them, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds like you did though. Transmission was pretty spotty there for awhile."

"I think something in the Titan might have been disrupting the signal," Winston says. "Once you guys were out you came through loud and clear."

The rest of his team filtering to join him, Reinhardt feels pride swelling in his chest. They had done well, had achieved their goal in good time, and with no injuries.

Brigitte sidles up to him. "So," she says with a smug grin, "looks like I might win." She gestures to the utter destruction on the battlefield. "I think we had to have killed at least two hundred."

He should have guessed she would try to rig the contest in her favor, the cheeky devil. "That does not count!" he protests, elbowing her good-naturedly. " _Individual_ kills!" Already he has at least a dozen. How many could they have encountered within the Titan? It is _he_ who will come out on top!

Behind him, Zarya’s concerned voice. "There is something wrong," she says, frowning. "They say there are lights coming from the omnium." She cranks up the volume on her radio.

Reinhardt turns to Winston for an explanation.

"We only shut down the reactor, correct?" Mercy says. "Not the whole plant?"

"Right," Winston agrees, pulling out his pad.

"So, lights would not be unusual?"

Reinhardt does not think so. He is far from a nuclear engineer, but he understands the simple premise of multiple power sources.

"I don't believe so. Some of the machines may still be on backup generators anyway." Winston elaborates, pursing his lips.

Zarya relays this through the radio.

"Should we go back?" Tracer asks, looking over her shoulder.

"I don't think-"

"Something is happening," Genji interrupts, low and urgent at the same moment that Zarya's radio crackles again.

Reinhardt turns to look back. The omnium is situated on a slight slope, and his eyes are not what they used to be. It takes him a moment to spot it - a tide of movement, like a living wall.

A wave of omnics pours towards them, red eyes glowing in the dawn.

 

***

 

“Winston?” McCree’s voice, pitched in alarm.

Reinhardt turns to face this new threat. He may be confused, he may not understand why - but all that rolls off him, forgotten. Right now it does not matter how the omnics came to be, or why now. All that matters is that they rise to meet this new challenge; it will be up to the team as to how _._

"Where the blooming hell did all those come from?" Tracer says, aghast. "Were they _always_ in there?"

"No wonder their numbers seem endless," Zarya mutters.

A reserve force? A reserve _army?_ It matters little. Whatever it is, it is in their way now.

“I just don’t get it,” Winston says, frantically typing on his pad. “Everything I found said all I needed to do was activate the nullification protocols.”

“Did those manuals n’ whatnot say anythin’ about fail-safes?” Torbjörn asks.

“Fail-safes? Some of them did mention the -” Winston pauses, eyes going almost comically wide. “ _Shit.”_

Now _that_ is a word Reinhardt has never heard out of his mouth before.

Winston’s shoulders slump, like a great, invisible hand has pressed him into the ground. “Oh my - I can’t believe I didn’t think of the -” he mumbles to himself, one huge palm pressed to the side of his face, “- the possible _fail-safes._ ” He sighs aloud. “Ugh. I’m so sorry everyone.”

“Don’t worry about it, big guy!” Tracer says, keen to soothe him. “We all make mistakes!”

“Yes,” Reinhardt agrees. “Do not be too hard on yourself, Winston.”

“Yeah, it’s all fine n’ dandy, that mistake-makin’. I did it a time or two myself. What matters is what we c’n do to fix it,” McCree says.

“Can you remember the fail-safes, and how to disable ‘em?” Torbjörn asks, eyeing the advancing army. “If not, can Athena figure it out for you?” Reinhardt admires how well his friend counterbalances Winston. He’s a great leader in his own right, offering steps towards a decision as effectively as Ana ever did.

“Yes…” Winston says. He sits upright, shoulders straightening as his considerable brain begins to work out a solution. “Yes. I think that might work.” He looks at Zarya. “I’m sorry Zarya, but we’re going to have to get back into the omnium.”

Zarya shrugs, unperturbed. She is as battle-hardened a warrior as any Reinhardt has ever seen, accepting this rapid change of plans without so much as blinking.

"Okay, new plan," says Winston, addressing the group at large now. "We get back in, disable the fail-safes, and go out the way we came in - through the sewer. Then Zarya’s people can commence with the bombing."

Zarya nods and begins to relay the plan over her radio.

McCree shrugs. "Sure, how hard could it be?" he says, gesturing at the mass of advancing omnics.

Winston frowns as the first bullets begin to dig into the snow yards ahead of them. Reinhardt puts up his shield as a precaution.

"It will be easiest if we flank them," Reinhardt suggests, though he feels the first twinges of doubt. He has not faced an army like this for more than a decade, on the blood-soaked fields surrounding Stuttgard. Even at the height of their strength Overwatch had not faced a force like this head-on, preferring the guerrilla tactics of warfare.

Behind him there is a quiet yet animated conversation going on between the Shimada brothers. Reinhardt turns his head slightly to see Genji pointing at the mass of omnics, gesturing from his sword to Hanzo's bow and back. Hanzo is shaking his, evidently disagreeing. He can only guess at what they are saying, not understanding Japanese, but from the tone it sounds like Genji wants Hanzo to do something.

"Athena, conduct an analysis of possible nuclear fail-safes," says Winston.

The omnics are steadily advancing. They're stuck in limbo, waiting. Should they move now, or wait until the force has arrived and spread, offering them an opening?"

"Okay, listen up!" says Winston. "We're going to do like Reinhardt suggested and flank them, wide left. Hold off on firing until it looks like they're coming after us, we want to preserve our ammo if possible, alright?"

There is a chorus of agreement, and the team bunches behind Reinhardt's shield.

Lúcio switches them to speed and Winston directs them forward. They move cautiously, the speed boost keeping their footsteps light and quick through the thick snow. The omnic army is at least a two hundred yards from them, most of its attention still intent on the barrage coming from the RDF's line.

Reinhardt feels the boom of the Russian's walkers unleashing salvo after salvo of explosive rounds into the enemy. It resonates through his armor, vibrating him like a tuning fork. The shots have distressingly little effect. The omnics march on, steamrolling the bodies of their fallen on their collision course with the Russian barricades.

Reinhardt's team is now walking parallel to the omnic horde. They are mostly being ignored for now, though a smattering of bullets still comes their way. He has to turn his body awkwardly across his body keep the barrier between them and the danger.

If they are lucky, they will not have to confront the omnics until they get closer to the omnium. They are hardly inconspicuous - his shield glows brightly in the dull shade of the dawn, after all - but as of yet they pose no threat. It had been a technique that worked once upon a time in the first skirmishes of the Omnic Crisis, before the machines had learned. Do these omnics still retain those memories?

They are not lucky. It is McCree, bringing up the rear who notices it first.

"Uh, fellas," he says warningly, "I think they're cuttin' us off."

Reinhardt chances a look back to see a tendril of black extending from the body of the army, now forming a barrier between them and the RDF's lines. The jerky red bounce of the omnics visual processors is familiar, insidious. The enemy is stalking them.

"Hold steady," Winston says, voice taught.

The omnics are not advancing as the speed that their group is moving, thanks to Lúcio's technology. This affords Reinhardt some measure of comfort, but he knows that if the main body of the army turns its attention towards them, that can quickly change.

They make it nearly a kilometer before all hell breaks loose.

The occasional plink of bullets off Reinhardt's shield becomes a hail, the wall of omnics parallel to their course have finally turned their attention towards them.

"Let's go!" Torbjörn and Winston say almost simultaneously, and the group breaks into a run as Lúcio cranks up the speed.

"I can't - aim- like this -" McCree pants from behind Reinhardt. Reinhardt can hardly run like this, contorted as he is to keep up his shield.

"Do you want to try to push through?" Tracer asks, speeding along next to Winston.

"We're going to have to " Winston says grimly. "We can't lose our momentum."

They push their way through the snow, the towering form of the omnium creeping ever closer. The morning sun has begun to peek through the dense cloud cover, sending pink light cascading over the top of the building.

_Red sky at morning, sailor's warning._

The nonsensical, ancient rhyme comes to Reinhardt suddenly as he pants and clanks towards the looming structure. He wonders what a pink sky meant to those long-ago mariners.

The crack and boom of the ongoing fight is so loud that at first he doesn't hear it. "Stop! McCree is down!" Mercy's voice over the comm, urgent and low. He turns, his heart dropping as he sees the brown form crumpled in the snow. Brigitte kneels behind him, shielding him from rearward gunfire while Mercy's wings glow over him. He retreats, the team shuffling with him until they form a shielded perimeter around their downed comrade.

"What has happened?" Hanzo barks, loosing an arrow at the advancing horde. Reinhardt glances back again, but he cannot see much through the crush of bodies surrounding McCree. He cannot tell if the flash of red he spies is blood, or McCree's serape.

"I been shot, that's what's happened," McCree groans.

"Leg wound," Mercy says, all business. "I cannot treat it here. I will have to bandage it."

"We have to move him soon," Torbjörn says. "They're comin'."

They _are_ coming. As the black mass of omnics pushes ever closer and his shield begins to crack under the onslaught of bullets, Reinhardt begins to think that the best plan of action would be a full retreat. They can return through the sewer tomorrow and finish the job. Advancing through enemies this numerous and dangerous would be nearly suicidal.

"Patched up, for the moment," Mercy says. "Winston, I think we should consider retreating."

"My barrier is failing," Reinhardt warns as another crack appears on the blue matrix. "Whatever we do, we must do it soon."

"Zarya?" Winston says, turning to her. "Can your people handle this for another twenty hours?"

Zarya turns, shaking her head. "We will have to pull back our camp. We do not have enough _svyatogors_ for this." She reaches for her radio.

"Reinhardt, brace yourself!" Genji's voice sounds in his ears, and Reinhardt instinctively does so just as he feels an impact on his shoulders. Genji vaults off of him, springing to a superhuman height and drawing his blade with a furious yell as he dives right at the swarm.

"Genji!" Hanzo roars, but it is too late.

Green light flares from amidst the horde, Genji's visor and blade glowing like a spectral storm as he slices and slashes. As the bodies begin to fall Reinhardt can see that Genji is cutting a path for them, and yells his observation over the comm. Genji has almost completely diverted the omnics attention.

"Let's go!" Winston says, bounding forward over the crumpled omnics.

"Reinhardt, would you grab McCree?" asks Mercy. McCree still sits in the snow, one pant leg tucked up to his knee. The bandage there is already beginning to stain red.

At his affirmation she follows Winston into the air, Caduceus beam seeming to stretch like a bungee cord as she wings after him. Winston's mammoth jump takes him over the remaining mass of omnics right to the mouth of the omnium, and Reinhardt can see a dome of light spring into being there. Winston's own shield.

Reinhardt reaches for the hobbled McCree. If they're making a break for the mouth of the omnium, he's going to charge right for it.

"Hey, I c'n still-" McCree starts, and then squawks as Reinhardt hauls him up and over his shoulder.

"Cover your head!" Reinhardt warns, firing up his rocket and hunkering low. He slings his hammer up and over the shoulder that isn't burdened by McCree, bringing his elbow up to shield the gunslinger's legs as he charges.

Omnic pieces fly as his sabatons cut through wreckage like the prow of a ship, but even with all the power of his rocket he is forced to cut his charge short twenty meters from the mouth of the omnium. The snow is thick, the terrain too steep. The risk of digging in far too great, especially with his precious cargo. He lurches the remaining distance, swinging his hammer one-handed at any omnics that venture too close.

Winston's bubble is beginning to crack just as he arrives. Mercy is darting back and forth within its confines with her blaster out, shooting omnics at the mouth of the omnium while Winston chases down the stragglers further inside. He jolts them with his Tesla cannon and then smashing them to pieces.

The blaster disappears into its holster as Reinhardt arrives, her beam flickering to life between them like a glowing umbilical cord. Reinhardt feels energy flowing into him, wiping away his fatigue. He turns, sets down McCree, and puts up his shield just as Winston's barrier breaks.

Brigitte, Torbjörn, Zarya and Lúcio are still on the battlefield, making their way towards him. Tracer has flanked to his right, picking off the omnics that have been separated from the body of the army by Genji's wild assault. Hanzo is already behind Reinhardt's shield, arrows finding their targets unerringly.

It feels like years that Reinhardt watches them run, helpless to do anything but hold up his shield. His good eye works with dreadful efficiency, highlighting the flash of Zarya's weapon cutting like a laser through any opposition, the glow of Lúcio's Crossfade suit as he lopes through the snow, the bounce of Torbjörn's beard as the group careens like a cannonball through the brief opening in the enemy's ranks.

And Brigitte, auburn hair swinging, shield held out as Reinhardt had done, protecting their right flank from any crossfire. Reinhardt feels palpable relief when they cross the threshold of the omnium and dive behind his shield. They are all safe. Except…

" _Koko ni modotte kite!_ " Hanzo barks over the comm, a statement that means nothing to Reinhardt but which shifts the attention of the fury of green coming from the battlefield.

Genji breaches from the mass of gray like a leaping dolphin, sprinting towards them and slicing as he comes. He darts behind the curve of Reinhardt's shield and sheathes his blade, dousing the otherworldly viridescent light.

In the wake of his attack Genji drops into a half-kneeling position. Steam billows from his vents as Mercy turns her beam on him, alternating her attention between him and McCree, trying to keep them both on their feet. Hanzo bounds to Genji's side. He bends low to mutter something softly to his brother. His hand hovers over one of Genji's vents, as if collecting the heat.

"We must go," Genji says, fatigue evident in his voice. "I will be fine."

"Which way?" Lúcio asks.

In a blue flash Tracer is back with them, waving her pistol towards the rear of the omnium. "This way!"

"Alright, let's get under some cover!" Lúcio says, cranking his amp. A wash of sound takes them, and they follow Tracer into the maze of walls. They pack in strategically: the weakest at the center, Reinhardt at the front and Brigitte bringing up the rear.

Their progress into the omnium is significantly faster than their progress out had been, thanks to Lúcio. They take the final turn and see the blasted-out door that leads into the reactor and squeeze through it. For the moment they have lost their pursuers, but Reinhardt does not think they will stay ahead for long.

Winston seems to know what he's looking for, because he instantly heads back upstairs.

Reinhardt tries to pick the door up and wedge it into the hole, but it topples to the ground, unable to stand. It will have to be propped up manually. He hopes to use it as a disguise, a way to buy some time before the omnics discover them.

"I'm gonna try and find another exit," Tracer says, and runs off.

Silence spreads over them as they wait. Torbjörn sets up a turret on a walkway adjacent to the door. Lúcio flips a switch on his amp, pulsing cheery yellow warmth over them. Mercy has her beam on McCree and is rolling up his pant leg again, exposing the bloodstained bandage. She unwraps it, revealing a neat black hole that she probes gently. Even as he watches, Reinhardt can see the edges of the wound knitting, pulling themselves closed as she forces his body to heal.

“It looks like a clean entry and exit,” she says, inspecting the backside of his calf. “I cannot say for sure if you have damaged the bone.”

“M’fine,” McCree says, puffing bravado. “I’ve had worse. Give Genji a lil’ attention, he really pushed himself out there.”

“Are you alright?” Reinhardt looks to his right to see Brigitte standing there looking up at him. Her hair is disheveled, coming down from its ponytail. Strands stick to her sweaty cheeks. Strange, how warm they are in this frozen Siberian tundra. She inspects the new dings and scratches on his armor with a frown.

“Me? I am fine,” he says, tapping his breastplate. “Though I think it is I who should be asking _you_ that question.”

Brigitte looks down at her own armor, as if seeing the damage there for the first time. "Aw man!" She says, poking at a particularly deep score in the metal. "It's going to take forever to buff this out."

"Not that," Reinhardt says, pointing at her unprotected head. " _That._ You need to make yourself a helm!"

Brigitte touches her head, feels her hair, and slips off her gauntlets to quickly fix her ponytail. “I don’t want a helm though. It won’t fit with my hair. And don’t tell me to cut it all off!”

Zarya paces towards them, holstering her radio. Brigitte and Reinhardt look at her as she meets their eyes grimly. “They tell me that much of the omnics have withdrawn to the omnium. They are coming for us.”

Brigitte sucks in a breath nervously and relays the message over the comm. Reinhardt’s mind races, planning, strategizing. The advantage of the omnium is that there are many choke points through which the enemy will be hampered. Straight corridors that his firestrike can mow them down in lines. However, the omnics can wear them down by sheer numbers if they cannot dispose of them fast enough.

“What is the RDF’s plan?” he asks Zarya. “Will they move the barricades? Pursue?”

Zarya shakes her head. “I do not think so. I can ask them to send backup, but I do not think they want to get close. They must have distance, to bomb the omnium.”

Reinhardt grits his teeth in frustration. The RDF will not have the opportunity to bomb the omnium if they do not ensure Overwatch enough time to deactivate the reactor! He does not know if there is any way for Zarya to relay that to her superiors though, so he keeps silent. He trusts Winston, he will find a way to disable it.

In the distance, the sound of metal on stone. The mass of the army moves like a centipede, its many feet grating and clicking as it comes ever closer. Reinhardt can only guess as to how long it will be before they are here; from the sound of it, he thinks less than ten minutes. “The army is at our doorstep,” he says. “Winston, once they arrive I do not think we will be able to hold them off for more than twenty minutes.”

“Gotcha,” comes the reply. Reinhardt can hear furious clicking in the background. Is Winston infiltrating the computer system? “I think I only need a few more minutes. Hang tight, everybody.”

They hold tight.

Torbjörn has finished assembling his turret. Mercy is inspecting the pink scar on McCree’s leg with an approving look as he tests his weight on it. Hanzo stands next to Genji, bow cradled loosely as he tries to surreptitiously inspect his vents. Lúcio shifts back and forth on his skates, as if uncertain of what to do. From the back of the omnium Tracer re-emerges, dashing towards them.

“I found another way out,” she says excitedly. “I think we can give ‘em the slip that way if they find us here.”

“That is great news!” Reinhardt exclaims, feeling a small measure of relief. “Can you tell where the sewer entrance is from there?”

“Ah - maybe.” Tracer pauses, thinking. “Athena, can you pinpoint an earlier location and give me coordinates, based on where we are now?”

Ah, he never thinks to ask Athena these things. “Athena, I would like to know as well,” he says into his comm.

“Certainly.” Athena’s cool voice rings in his ear. “My satellites estimate that your desired location is due northeast, approximately twenty-seven yards. I can provide directions, if you wish.”

“Ah, perhaps later, thank you,” Reinhardt says. If they must escape, he will take her instructions then. Twenty-seven yards is not so far.

The lights in the reactor flicker, then die. The only lights now are the yellow glow of Lúcio’s skates, Mercy’s wings, the green slit of Genji’s visor, and the oscillating purplish glow of Zarya’s particle cannon. Reinhardt had not been aware of the deep, pervasive humming resonating throughout the room until that too fades away. In the ensuing silence, the sounds of the approaching army are much louder.

“Okay guys, I have to do one more thing and then we can get out of here,” Winston crackles, and then falls silent.

“Did he _have_ to kill th’ lights?” McCree grouses, edging closer to the blasted-out door. The sun is rising, but the high walls of the omnium let in far less sunlight than Reinhardt would like. Today of all days it would be overcast.

“Do you still have that flashlight?” Brigitte asks Lúcio, who snaps his fingers and fumbles for a moment, before clicking it on. They now have the narrow beam of the torch to aid them.

From around the distant corner, Reinhardt sees the first pinpricks of red.

“They are here!” he hisses into his comm. He lifts the door and holds it against the hole, plunging them into even deeper darkness. “Winston, should we head for the rear entrance? Do you need more time?”

“Uh, just a second,” WInston says, distracted. There’s a metallic screeching sound over the comm. “Just give me five more minutes. If you think you can hold the reactor for that long?”

Reinhardt hears affirmation from his comrades. “We will try.”

“Stick close, everyone,” says Tracer.

“Do not attack until they have come to the door,” Hanzo suggests. “If there is even a chance of them passing us by, we should take it.”

The air freezes with tension as the scrape and clink of tens of feet nears, until it is so close that Reinhardt knows the enemy must be just on the other side. He freezes, hardly daring to breathe.

_Scccchk._

A strange sound. When he registers the jiggling of the handle, he realizes: something is trying the lock. The door is still shut fast, and the sound stops after a few seconds.

 _Will it work?_ _Will it fool them?_

The war omnics, though they lack many of the higher processing centers that the more modern civilian models possess, are not stupid. Reinhardt knows this, and is therefore unsurprised when he hears a high-pitched crackling sound. He _is_ surprised when the round handle plate simply falls off. He loses his hold as the lock gives way and the doors collapse inward.

"They are here!" he shouts into his comm, warning Winston before smashing the first two through the door with his hammer.

It is pandemonium. The omnics spill through the breach like tar, heavy and dark. The narrowness of the aperture means that they can only trickle in, which makes disposing of them swift. Reinhardt smashes and crushes until his arms grow fatigued.

Their numbers seem endless. For each one that is demolished another takes its place. The bodies pile up and eventually the team is forced back, lest they trip on the wreckage.

Fighting in the dark is something Reinhardt detests. He fears his own strength, what an unchecked swing of his hammer might do to one of his teammates if he misjudges their location.

Such darkness he has faced once before on the sprawling fields outside Stuttgard. The sky had darkened, turned a muddy brown from the endless bombing runs that had churned the dirt up into the clouds; the dense smoke as the grass had caught fire and burned for days. Even there he had had more visibility; the flashes of bullets and firestrikes and fire turning everything a hellish orange.

Reinhardt throws a firestrikes into the advancing omnics even as he takes a step back. "Winston, how is it coming?" he says. He brings his shield to bear as more omnics break through, guns aimed right for them.

"I'm done!"

A galloping sound and then a thump; Winston lands beside them. "C'mon, let's go!"

Never has he been so glad to retreat. The omnium was beginning to feel like a death trap. Ahead someone is carrying the torch; he can see the light bouncing along the ground, and the glowing circle of Tracer's chronal accelerator. They follow her along the side of a building and around a corner, then another turn that terminates in a door.

"This is it!" Tracer pushes open the door, and -

Brigitte, who is at the front now brings her shield up just in time. There is a veritable sea of omnics on the other side, red eyes focusing on them even as the black barrels of their guns snap up.

Bullets fly, and Brigitte's shield can only withstand so much before it shatters. She grabs for the door handle as she raises an arm, shielding her face. The door slams shut again.

"Is everyone alright?" Tracer says, winking back into existence. Reinhardt hadn’t even notice her recalling to avoid being hit. He pushes to the front, kneeling next to Brigitte It’s still too dark to make out her face, and he cannot feel anything through his armor.

“Did you get hit?” he asks. The speed at which her shield had broken was alarming.

“I-I’m fine,” Brigitte says, her voice wavering from the shock of the surprise. “I didn’t expect that.”

In the distance Reinhardt can hear the echoing crack of Torbjörn’s turret, firing down on the enemy. They’ve breached the omnium, and even now must be making their way towards them. His team is like mice trapped in a maze that is steadily filling with water. Only instead of water, it is omnics that will flood every crack and crevice until they are overwhelmed.

“No new injuries,” Mercy reports.

“Winston, what is our next course of action?” Genji asks. “The way forward is blocked. They are behind us. If we do not find another way out…” He leaves the sentence unfinished, an ominous silence falling. Everyone knows what will happen if they can’t get out.

“We could try the upper level,” Winston says. “There may be an emergency exit there.”

“Maybe we could jump out a window,” Lúcio suggests.

“Better decide fast, gents,” Tracer says tightly, having dashed to the end of the hall to peer around the corner. “They’re coming. We don’t have much time.”

“Which way to the sewer entrance?” Hanzo asks.

Zarya is speaking into her radio. Reinhardt cannot understand what she is saying, but he recognizes the word ‘ _svyatogors_ ’, and the urgency in her voice is plain. She is radioing for backup, but he doesn’t think that the Russians can save them from this.

“If we’re going to go, let’s go,” Torbjörn says, turning back down the hall. “No dilly-dallying.”

“ _Which way to the sewer entrance!”_ Hanzo demands, the sharpness in his voice tearing through their confusion.

“Uh - it should be east about twenty-two meters and then seventeen to the north,” Winston stammers. So, that would put them on a path straight ahead out the door and to the left. It seems so simple, so _close!_ Safety is tantalizingly within reach.

“Come here,” Hanzo says in a tone that brooks no argument. He points at Reinhardt. “Have your shield up.” He points to Brigitte. “Open the door on my signal.”

“Hanzo,” Genji says, but Hanzo ignores him.

“Be prepared to run,” Hanzo says, and nocks an arrow in his bow. He stands in front of the door, just in front of Reinhardt’s shield. He pulls back the string, and takes a deep breath. When he releases it, the hiss of his breathing seems to elongate and deepen, taking on a strange, hollow timbre. Blue light flickers into being along his arm, wavering like tongues of flame. It winds down to his hand, growing and roiling until -

“ _Now!_ ”

Brigitte throws the door open as Hanzo’s yell distorts into a roar, and he looses the arrow.

Brigitte and Hanzo throw themselves back behind Reinhardt’s shield as soon as the arrow flies, but Reinhardt is hardly aware of it; he’s too busy watching what Hanzo has unleashed.

Ghostly shapes have exploded into being, bright and glowing as the heavens themselves. It engulfs the omnic horde, and even as Reinhardt watches he can see bullets and metal bodies withering, crumbling to ash. The shapes twine around each other sinuously, and though he cannot make it out clearly he thinks they look just like a pair of - _no, it is impossible._

The dragons roar as they barrel through the omnics, a thunderous yet empty sound that Reinhardt feels more than he hears. He’s so paralyzed with awe that it takes Brigitte smacking his chestplate for him to remember that they are supposed to be moving now.

Reinhardt charges forward, shield still up though now there is nothing to guard from. He makes a left at Winston’s instruction and finds nothing but more ash and the shimmering tails of the cosmic dragons fading away into the air. The rusty doors that Winston had thrown open before have disappeared, as well as a good portion of the end of the sewer which has been reduced to ash. They squeeze inside and assemble as they had done on their arrival, Lúcio’s music carrying them away from the danger. Away from the omnics.

Towards safety.

 

***

 

“That was amazing!” Tracer exclaims as they emerge from the pipe into the concrete lagoon. They had run the whole way back, not stopping until they had spied the bright circle of daylight that marked the end.

Tracer seems the only one able to find her voice. Reinhardt, finally feeling it is safe enough to do so, removes his helm and takes deep breaths of the bracing Siberian air. The cold stings his lungs, making him cough, but it feels like heaven on his sweaty face.

“How did you do that?” Tracer is dancing on her toes in front of Hanzo. _At least someone still has energy._ “Were those really _dragons?!_ ”

Reinhardt is curious to know the answer to that question too. Hanzo’s face is shuttered, pinched; it does not look like he wants to answer.

“It’s...something of a family secret,” Genji says wryly.

“Well, whatever it was it saved our skins!” Tracer says, smartly dropping the subject. “Thanks, Hanzo!”

_A man is allowed his secrets._

“I did what I must,” Hanzo replies, discomfited with her thanks. Reinhardt feels the warmth of gratitude as well, and expresses it in the form of a firm pat on Hanzo’s back. Hanzo does not shrug off his hand, merely gives him the tiniest of nods.

"Y'know, the fact that you c'n make dragons is a pretty big secret," McCree says. "You should put that on your resume. Bet Winston'll have to let you join Overwatch now."

Hanzo shoots him an annoyed look. McCree is bringing up an old argument now. "I have told you, I do not want -"

If they are feeling well enough to bicker, Reinhardt counts it a blessing.

They return to the dropoff point to see the covered truck still parked there, their escorts lounging in the cab. Zarya slaps the truck’s door, startling the men napping inside and barks something in Russian at them. She sounds angry.

A very awkward argument ensues. Reinhardt can read enough from the tone to guess that she is likely ripping them apart for letting their guard down so. Once she’s finished with her men, she turns to Winston.

“You are sure that the omnium is down?”

Winston nods. “Yes. I checked and double checked the fail-safes before I came back. Your people should be fine to commence the bombing.”

“Good,” Zarya breathes deeply, looking back the way they had come. “We will have to pull the army back first, but for now we go back to camp.”

Once situated inside the back of the truck, Reinhardt feels exhaustion finally beginning to creep up on him. He checks the time; it is nearly six hours since they left. It feels conversely like they have been fighting for weeks, and for no time at all. As the truck trundles back towards camp, he thinks longingly of his bed back in Gibraltar. He could sleep for hours.

“Hooolyy crap,” Lúcio says, slumping against the wall. “That was like, terrifying and awesome all at once.” He holds out a hand, showing them how his fingers tremble. “I think that took a year off my life. I really thought we were gonna eat it for a moment back there.”

Torbjörn grunts, rubbing his back. “You get used to it.” He pauses, then grudgingly admits: “Though, we don’t normally cut it quite that close.”

Angela has McCree sitting on the floor, his pant leg rolled up again while she continues to examine his wound. By now all that remains of it is a pink, puckered scar.

“I’ll need to x-ray that,” she says, sighing. “If there are bone fragments or a misalignment I may have to take you to surgery. Either way, you should avoid using that leg any more until we get back.”

Hanzo and Genji sit quietly together. Reinhardt thinks the space between them might be smaller, but perhaps that is the way that Hanzo has relaxed, loose-limbed against the truck. Whatever he had done before, it looks to have taken a lot out of him. His eyes are half-shut, as though he can barely keep them open. Genji is likewise subdued, though Reinhardt cannot make out his expression. He thinks that this mission owes most of its success to the Shimada brothers.

Brigitte is unusually quiet, propping her chin up on the curve of her shield.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, and yawns. “I’m just _really_ tired all of a sudden.”

“Well, we have just been running for our lives,” Tracer interjects cheerily.

“You fought well today,” he tells Brigitte. “Your reflexes may have saved us back there.”

Brigitte frowns. “It didn’t stop McCree from getting shot,” she says, loud enough for the man himself to hear it.

“Now, don’t worry about it,” he tells her. “I’ve taken worse. Your shield stopped me from gettin’ chewed up by them bullets while I was down.” He pats his leg. “‘Sides, it ain’t nothin’ our esteemed doc can’t fix.”

Brigitte still looks doubtful.

Reinhardt places an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. She is beginning to learn the hard lesson that he himself learned so many decades ago. “Brigitte, you cannot protect everyone.” He sweeps a hand out, gesturing to all their teammates. “Look: we are all safe now. That is the most important thing. _Ja?_ ”

“...Yeah.”

 

***

 

Back in the RDF camp, their reception is much warmer than the one they had received the day of their arrival. The soldiers that have returned from the field cheer as Overwatch disembarks from the truck, a sound that transforms into something like a war cry when Zarya herself emerges.

It is good to see how the morale has improved. Some of the post-assassination tension seems to have dissipated in the wake of their victory. Even though the bombs have yet to fall, Reinhardt can feel a new wind of freedom blowing.

With the camp intent to move and their involvement no longer required, Winston decides that they should leave as soon as possible. Reinhardt at first argues that they should stay and help the army mop up the remaining omnics, but it is Zarya that shoots him down.

“We have fought them this last year unaided, we can fight them again. You must take care of your own first.” She gives him a significant look. “And the longer you remain here, the longer your home goes undefended.”

They are ominous words, and Reinhardt knows they are sparked by the concern of the recent assassination attempt, but it makes him think. _Could Talon be planning an attack on the Watchpoint?_

He puts it from his mind. Talon is _always_ plotting to kill them.

They decide to leave in the middle of the night after a few hour’s sleep. Lena insists she is rested enough to fly. Leaving such will put their arrival at the Watchpoint in the morning - a recipe for terrible jet lag - but everyone is eager to be back on familiar ground.

“I am _so_ ready to be back in my own bed,” Lúcio says, yawning as he packs his bag. “I could sleep for a week.”

McCree scowls as Reinhardt picks up his bags. He has been forced by Angela to use a set of crutches as to keep the weight off of his leg. “I don’ know why I need to use these, m’leg feels fine,” he grouses, but obeys the doctor’s orders.

The Orca is towed out onto the tarmac and the soldiers help them load their gear while Lena and Winston run checks on the aircraft. Reinhardt is somewhat surprised to see that not one of the RDF’s superior officers has come to see them off; he rather thought their gratitude would extend further than this. But perhaps it is better this way, to come and go with little fanfare.

The last of their supplies are shut into the cargo bays, and Reinhardt is about to join the rest of his teammates inside the Orca when he sees it. Pink hair illuminated faintly in the spotlights beating down on the tarmac: it is Zarya. Reinhardt and Winston go to meet her as she jogs towards the Orca.

“I meant to help you pack, but there was a meeting,” she says, annoyed. “Forgive me.”

“It’s okay, I understand that the RDF probably has bigger things to worry about right now,” says Winston, pushing up his glasses. “Um...tell everyone thank you. Your hospitality was appreciated.”

“Do keep in touch,” Reinhardt says, reaching out to shake Zarya’s hand. When she grabs his proffered palm, she pulls him into her in a hard, firm hug.

“Don’t be afraid to call us if you ever need anything.” Winston says, offering his own hand. Zarya enfolds him in the same bearlike embrace, and he pats her awkwardly on the back.

“I am happy to call Overwatch a friend of Russia,” Zarya declares, and releases Winston. “Thanks to you, this year my men will celebrate Christmas with their families.” Reinhardt thinks he might see the slightest shine in Zarya’s eyes when she says that, though her voice never wavers. She steps back and salutes, standing tall under the lights as they go.

“Safe travels, my friends.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slava bogu - Thank god/ thank goodness
> 
> Ja - Yes
> 
> Look! I didn't end on a cliffhanger for once! Coming in two weeks: Recovery


	23. Recovery

 

_“It was quite a beautiful thing, the way we simply just came to be. With no effort or trying, just slowly finding each other's hands in the dark. No chains or promises, just a simple sign of hope. That things will go on and get better.”_

_― Charlotte Eriksson_

  


Brigitte watches as the hatch closes behind them. In the bright glare of the spotlights she can see Zarya illuminated, throwing them a salute. She waves back, though she doubts Zarya can see it.

As the Orca lifts off into the darkness, Brigitte feels many things. Hungry, tired, nervous - those flying jitters never really go away - but mostly, she feels happy. 

No. Happy isn’t quite the right word. She feels _thankful._

Thankful that they’ve all survived the mission. Thankful to be going home. _When did the Watchpoint become home?_ Glad, because even with the danger and near-misses, she feels like this is where she belongs. In Overwatch. 

With Reinhardt.

“We’ve reached cruising altitude, you’re free to move about the cabin, loves!” Lena pipes cheerily over the intercom. She sounds as spirited as ever, and Brigitte envies her seemingly limitless supply of energy. Right now she would like nothing more than to curl up in a ball on the floor and go to sleep, but she can’t. She’s never found it easy to sleep on a plane.

She releases her harness, groaning as she stands. New aches and pains have manifested themselves in the ten minutes they’ve been in the air. How bad will she feel tomorrow?

Reinhardt likewise grunts as he stretches beside her. His back pops like a string of firecrackers when he arches left, then right, then back. 

“You okay? Sounds like you could use some more stretching.”

After the mission had ended everyone had been so intent getting out of their combat attire that they hadn’t really thought about proper aftercare. Then Winston had dropped the news that they were leaving. 

“Perhaps,” he admits, straightening back up. “If you would oblige me.”

Brigitte looks around the Orca, trying to find a spot that’s out of everyone’s way. It’s not difficult. Genji and Hanzo are seated at the table where they had played poker on the way down. Genji sits, lotus-style, eyes closed. _Meditating? Sleeping?_ She realizes she doesn’t know if he even _needs_ to sleep. Hanzo sits next to him, the hood of his winter coat pulled down over his eyes. By the way his head lolls, Brigitte guesses he is well on his way to napping. 

McCree sits on the far side of the table adjacent from the Shimada brothers, his hat pulled low over his eyes. His injured leg is propped on the bench-style seat, a pillow under his injured calf. 

Winston sits Lena in the cockpit. Angela is looking Papa over at Brigitte’s request. Brigitte had told her what had transpired during their disembarking of the Titan, much to his chagrin. His shirt is rucked up to his neck and Angela is pressing on his ribs, his back, asking him if there is any pain. Lúcio is still in his seat, listening to music. 

There’s plenty of open space for them to stretch just adjacent to the poker table. She and Reinhardt move through a series of dynamic stretches, working the soreness from their muscles. Arm swings, leg kicks, shoulder dislocates. Angela watches them approvingly from over Torbjörn’s shoulder. 

Static stretches are where Reinhardt needs her help, being far less flexible than she is. She helps apply extra tension when he hits the limits of his flexibility, pushing the stretch just to the point of discomfort. It’s hard work, but well-worth the results. With each hold she can feel the belly of his muscles loosening.

“Feel better?” She stands over him, holding his knee taut while she presses down, stretching his hamstring. His foot is hooked over her shoulder, and it takes most of her strength to keep his leg straight and hold the stretch at the same time. 

“Much.” 

When she releases the last stretch he remains on the ground. He looks tired. Brigitte feels likewise. What she wouldn’t give for a warm bed right now. Or a hot tub. Does the Watchpoint have a hot tub? Heat is the best thing to kickstart their muscle recovery, but in its absence she has another option.

“Massage?” 

His acceptance is enthusiastic. They pile their winter coats together in a makeshift mattress, cushioning Reinhardt as best as she can from the cold floor of the Orca. _Maybe they could install a massage table in here?_ She makes a mental note to bring it up to Winston later. 

As he takes his place facedown on the ground, Brigitte reflects that this may be one of the only missions in their history that she wasn’t sewing him up. She could get used to that. Post-mission first aid had become something of an unpleasant ritual with them when they had been on the road. Though, she _had_ gotten pretty good with a staple gun and a suture kit. 

She can feel the thick bands of scars through his shirt as she traces her hands over his shoulders and down his back. Yeah, never touching a suture kit again would be nice. 

Brigitte digs into the knots along his spine and shoulder blades, using the pad of her thumb to tease apart the tense myofascia. Over and over she works his muscles from neck to waist, finding fewer knots each time. He’s loosened up. 

"Anyone else want one?" 

She extends the offer to the rest of her teammates as Reinhardt remains near-comatose on the floor, still awash in post-massage endorphins. 

"I could use one!" Lúcio volunteers enthusiastically, throwing his own coat down next to Reinhardt. 

Straddling him is much different than straddling Reinhardt. She rests her weight gently on the swell of his butt, half-afraid that she might squash him. He’s so _slim._ Each muscle jumps like piano wire, taut beneath his skin. Brigitte begins to dig her fingers alongside his spine, marveling at how her hands easily span most of his back. 

Here too it’s much easier than massaging Reinhardt. His knots fairly jump out at her, and she’s only just begun to tease them apart when he interrupts, squawking. "Hey, hey! Whoah!"

"What?" she stops.

"That's a _little_ too intense for me," he jokes. "Maybe tone it down a notch? Some of us aren’t as strong as you and Reinhardt."

"Oh, whoops! Sorry, Lu." She resumes her ministrations, decreasing her force exponentially. She's been so used to working on Reinhardt that she's forgotten what normal people can handle.

By the time she's finished with Lúcio, he too seems to have achieved that near-comatose state of nirvana that Reinhardt is finally pulling himself out of. Brigitte looks around wondering if anyone else would like one.

Angela is sitting and reading a book now, having finished examining Torbjörn. She takes it as a good sign that her father is now standing at the map display and poking around on his pad; surely that means he’s uninjured from his fall. Her eyes alight on the fringe of brown hair poking over the pilot’s seat on the opposite end of the plane. Maybe Lena would want one?

Brigitte bypasses the sleeping Shimada brothers and McCree, thinking that maybe when they wake up she’ll offer a massage to them. Well, except Genji. Parts of his cybernetic enhancements _look_ like muscle, but she’s not sure he experiences the same sort of issues that completely organic humans do. Man, that’s really interesting to think about. _Can_ you give a cyborg a massage?

She ascends the steps to the cockpit. “Hey, either of you two want a massage? Available for a limited time only!” Brigitte holds up her hands like she’s advertising a fabulous prize and then wiggles her fingers jokingly. 

Winston declines, though Lena happily takes her up on the offer. "Staring out of the window for hours really does a number on my shoulders," she sighs and leans forward in her seat so to give Brigitte access to her back.

Indeed Brigitte finds a lot of tightness that needs worked out. She remembers her lesson from Lucio and keeps her force at a minimum, using her fingers to read Lena’s responses. As she works she takes a look around the cockpit. She’s never been in here before. There’s a number of orange displays that she can’t make heads or tails of, as well as dials and pedals and a steering column that she thinks is called a ‘yoke’. 

The Orca has a huge windshield that dominates the display, an arresting sight. Brigitte can see the expanse of sky draped around them like a navy curtain, velvety and rich. The night that had seemed so dark has transformed beneath them, becoming a pale blue wash of moonlight. It looks a little bit like an ocean, the way the shadows fall on the soft edges of the clouds. It’s beautiful, if not a little terrifying.

She has to look away before she starts thinking about how high up they are.

Brigitte massages until the tightness fades, then releases. By the way Lena slumps in her chair when she's done, Brigitte thinks that she's been dealing with it for awhile now.

"Wow that was amazing!" Lena says, draped bonelessly over the controls. "Can we make post-mission massages a regular thing?"

Winston regards her curiously. "Are they really that great?"

"Go on Brigitte, show him!" Lena flaps her hand limply at Winston, still slumped. "He's never had one before."

"It's not like I can go just go into town and get one done,” he says, gesturing at his body. “You know, every time I make a public appearance someone calls animal control.”

Brigitte edges up behind Winston, lifting her hands questioningly. He hadn't wanted one before, but she's more than willing to try. When he gives her a nod, she sets to work. Knowing that Winston has never had one, she wants to pull out all the stops. To impress him. She wants...well, she wants to make him feel good. It’s a little sad when she really thinks about it, how Winston’s been shut away from the whole world for most of his life. It would be good, to give him something nice.

Working on Winston feels a lot like working on Reinhardt. They're both huge, heavily muscled, and she has to go back to full Reinhardt-approved strength to dig into his knots. His hair is an extra layer, one she has to be conscientious of. Pulling out hairs is _not_ enjoyable. 

Whatever she’s doing seems to be working, because he lets out a surprised grunt. 

“Is it okay?” Brigitte pauses in her motions. 

“Y-yeah.” He sounds almost pained, his voice choked. She’s not convinced, so she stops. 

“Are you sure?” 

Winston takes off his glasses, ducking his head as he pulls out a little cleaning cloth to wipe them. “Yes! Yes, I’m sure. Sorry, just wasn’t expecting it to feel so…um…nice.” By the way he says it it’s obvious to Brigitte that he’s embarrassed by his own enjoyment of it. 

“See?” Lena says, finally lifting her head up. “I vote we promote Brigitte to team masseuse. Give her a raise!” 

Brigitte laughed, settling back to work. “I don’t know if I’m _that_ good. I’ve just had a bit of practice is all.” She lowers her voice to a stage-whisper. “You know _, keeping Reinhardt in one piece_.” 

“Well, however you learned it’s working. I haven’t felt this relaxed in weeks!” Lena stretches her arms overhead, then settles back in her seat. She taps her fingers on the Orca’s yoke thoughtfully. “All I need now to be complete is a nice hot meal.”

“Me too,” Brigitte agrees, though being in the air has her appetite diminished. Once her feet touch solid ground though she knows she’ll be ravenous. “Say...aren’t _you_ supposed to pick where we eat, Winston?”

Winston doesn’t respond. He’s leaned forward as Brigitte has worked her way down his back, and when she peers over his shoulder she sees that he’s staring blankly ahead. His mouth has lolled open slightly. 

“Winston?”

His head jerks up, jaw clicking shut. “What? Sorry, uh, I was..um...woolgathering. What was the question?” 

“Food, big guy!” Lena laughs, reaching over to give his arm a shake. “Where do you want to stop to eat? It’s your choice, remember?”

“Food, right, uhh _mmmmm…_ ” Winston’s hesitation turns into a drawn-out grunt as Brigitte digs her thumbs along his neck. She has to stifle a giggle. “Um, oh - I don’t really care. Whatever everyone- _uh_ else wants to go is f-fine with me, really.” 

“Oh no, that’s not a real answer!” Lena ticks her finger at him. “ _You_ get to choose. It’s only fair!”

Brigitte continues her massage, amused as they argue back and forth. Or rather, Winston keeps deflecting while Lena tries to push him to give a definitive answer. In the end it is Winston who wins out, and Brigitte ends her massage as he turns to address the rest of the team. 

“Okay everyone, we’re taking a vote on where people want to stop for food. Any preferences?”

Sleepy heads pop up from benches and the floor as something more pressing than _sleep_ catches everyone’s attention.

This starts an hour-long debate over the merits of Italian food versus Mediterranean food, while Angela insists that Winston should get to make the final decision. Hanzo and McCree get into a particularly spirited conversation, sniping at each other from across the table. 

“The body requires a varied diet to remain in peak form,” Hanzo speaks to the room at large, his body angled conspicuously away from the side of the bench that McCree sits on. “A lighter fare to keep the mind sharp, and prevent a shape more inclined toward ...excess.” The latter half of his words are definitely tinged with disdain.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with likin’ Italian food,” retorts McCree. “There’s plenty’a variety in -- wait. Are you callin’ me _fat?”_

Brigitte goes back to standing with Lúcio and Reinhardt, watching the argument unfold. 

“Those two sure seem to butt heads a lot,” she says. 

“Yeah. Jesse’s not even fat! He just has a little…” Lúcio holds his hands in front of his stomach, indicating a gut. “You know. Spare tire. Dad bod. Whatever you wanna call it.” 

“Not you too!”

“I am sure Jesse has had other things to worry about in the last few years,” Reinhardt says, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “He has been on the run for a long time. It does not leave much time for extracurriculars.” 

Oh, that’s right. Sometimes Brigitte forgets that they have identities outside of Overwatch. McCree is a wanted man. Has been for at least ten years. Sometimes she wonders why he returns to America, if he’s never safe there. 

In the end Winston decides the debate by picking Mediterranean food. It had been five to three split between them, with Genji having no preference and Winston holding his vote until everyone else had chosen. 

“Uh, how do we pick a restaurant?” Lúcio asks. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve never been to the Mediterranean. Like, at all.”

“It’s simple enough,” Torbjörn says, sidling up to them. “We’re not actually goin’ to stop anywhere special. We were able to get away with landin’ in Italy in the past on account of Ray knowin’ a guy with a private airstrip. But we’ll just pick a restaurant on Gibraltar, order up and pick it up once we get back.”

“Oh, I guess that is easy,” Lúcio whips out his pad, presumably to do the same thing that Brigitte is, which is searching up Mediterranean restaurants.

The whole food ordering prospect ends up being a lot more complex that Brigitte had expected. There’s a number of Mediterranean food places in Gibraltar, all of which she’s unfamiliar with. They each pick a different restaurant and comb through the menu, comparing the appetizers and main courses and pitching the ones that sound best to each other. 

“Geez, this is a lot of work,” she complains to Reinhardt as she tries to navigate a particularly poorly-made website. “I think next time I might just pay you to cook for me instead.”

After an interminable time they finally have the place decided when Lena mention something none of them had considered until now: “Uh, Mediterranean sounds good and all, but the restaurants won’t be open when we get back. It’ll be early morning.”

After a long, awkward pause Winston rubs a hand over his eyes. “Fine. Let’s just do breakfast.” 

The rest of the ride home feels a lot shorter than the ride there had been. Brigitte isn’t sure if that’s because she’s so tired that her mind is blanking on part of the journey, or because Lena is actually pushing the Orca faster. It doesn’t really matter. She’s still eternally grateful when the aircraft touches down, and is the first to disembark once the hatch opens. 

 _Sweet, sweet ground._ Even the slap of cold, briny air on her face is welcoming. 

Angela and Lena have volunteered to go pick up a smorgasbord of breakfast food while the rest of them unload the trailer.

“ _You_ take it easy,” Angela warns McCree, pointing her finger out of the car window just before they go. “I still have to examine that leg of yours before I clear you for regular duty.”

“Damn.” McCree curses as they pull out of earshot. “I was hopin’ she’d forget.” He seems to resent being labeled an invalid, a feeling Brigitte knows well. She had felt the same way when her head was healing. 

“Here, you can use this!” Brigitte fetches a cart from the garage and begins piling their supplies on it. When it’s full she gives it to McCree to push inside, where Papa is waiting to help unload. 

They’ve got an efficient system. By the time Lena and Angela return, they’ve gotten everything inside and are helping Winston guide the Orca into the bay. Zenyatta shows up halfway through the unloading process, and though he isn’t much help with the supplies he does bid them all a warm greeting. 

“Peace be upon you, my friends. I am glad to see you have returned.” His voice is undeniably pleased, and he returns the hug that Genji bestows upon him with a quiet hum of what might be amusement. Strange as it sounds, Brigitte is glad to see him too. 

The sun is rising as they close the garage up, cool beams of light cascading over the ocean and reflecting almost painfully into Brigitte’s eyes. Her body is confused, sleepiness now warring with her circadian rhythm. She’s at that point of exhaustion now where her desire for sleep seems to override everything; even scarfing down a waffle topped with strawberries and whipped cream isn’t as enjoyable as it would be normally. She just wants to get some sleep. 

“Okay every, get some rest. No sims for the next five days.” Winston drops the news on them just before he heads for his lab, sparking relief in her. Good, that means she can just sleep for the next twenty-four hours. 

“G’night everyone,” Brigitte says, throwing a wave over her shoulder as she departs for her room.

When she gets there she dumps her bag unceremoniously on the floor and looks longingly at her bed. She doesn’t sit though. She knows if she stops moving she won't get up for hours, and she’s not had a proper shower since they left for Krasnoyarsk. Getting clean will make sleep all the better.

 Her normal sleep ablutions seem insurmountably difficult. Staring at her bed still, for a moment she wishes she could fast-forward time. Just switch to the second that she falls into bed. But that of course is impossible. 

One step at a time.

Despite breaking the routine down, the shower still almost undoes her. Being under the warm spray is almost like being on the soft embrace of her bed, and she stands under the water in a trancelike haze of exhaustion for a few long minutes before she can overcome her inertia. 

When she's finished, the chill of the water drying on her skin motivates her to pull on her pajamas and brush her teeth hurriedly. She in the middle of flossing when a knock comes at her door.

Brigitte looks longingly at her bed. It’s _right there._ She could just pretend that she’s already asleep. But what if it’s important? 

She opens the door to see Reinhardt. 

“Hey. What’s up?” She notices that he too looks like he’s about ready for bed. He’s wearing an old sleeveless shirt and his plaid pajama bottoms. Oh no, he better not want to do a mission recap right now _._ She doesn’t mind them normally, it definitely helps to figure out where they can do better, but she’ll definitely end up snoring through this one.

“May I come in?” 

She lets him in. 

Brigitte plops down on her bed in a not-so-subtle hint that it’s where she’d rather be right now. “You wanna talk about something?”

“Talk? If you wish,” he says. So he _hadn’t_ come to talk?

“Oh, no,” she backpedals. “Just wondering - _why you’re here sounds kinda mean_ \- uh...what’s up?” she says, lamely. 

“I had noticed that you did not get a massage yourself on the flight back.” 

 _Oh._ She had completely forgotten about that. She had been so preoccupied with giving everyone else one, and then been distracted by the whole food debacle that it had completely slipped her mind.

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t,” she says with a shrug. “That’s okay though.”

“You do not want one now?” he says. The expression on his face is so put out that she realizes that he’s _offering_ one. Reinhardt is such a stickler for fairness and chivalry, she should have expected this. It’s kind of cute, in a way. In some ways he’s such an anachronism. 

“Well, only if you _really_ want to.” She falls back on her bed, bouncing the pillow. “But, I gotta warn you. I might fall asleep.” 

“I will take it as a compliment if you do,” he says. 

Brigitte rolls over onto her stomach and shoves her pillow length-wise under her chest and neck, so that her head has room to hang. It wouldn’t do to be smothered in her bedsheets. Reinhardt clambers onto the bed, causing it to dip alarmingly. The springs squeak in protest, and she has to smother a laugh into the pillow. Maybe they should’ve done this on the floor.

He straddles her legs, careful not to rest much of his weight on her hips. Ever since he had accidentally cut of circulation to her legs one time, he had been keen to not do it again. 

The touch of his hands is like heaven. Brigitte hadn’t even realized how much tension she was still carrying until his thumbs tease apart the first knots. She sighs, a sound that turns into something like a moan when he presses down, squeezing some of the breath out of her. It’s really convenient sometimes, how warm he is; her own personal heated massage. 

"You know," Brigitte says, deciding that talking is the only way she’s going to stay awake through this, "you and Zarya never did arm wrestle."

The hands on her back still, then resume their motion.

"Indeed. I admit I forgot this, in our rush out of Krasnoyarsk." Reinhardt sighs, then brightens. "Ah well, it will be an excuse to see her again!" 

She laughs. “You sound so eager for that.” Slyly, she adds, “You know, you could’ve asked her out before we left.”

“This again!” Reinhardt hardly falters in his motion. Darn, she had thought he would be easier to embarrass. “I have told you, I respect her as a soldier. As a strong warrior!” 

“Mmm, she is pretty strong,” Brigitte says. “She could probably bench you.” 

“It is likely.”

“I bet you were quaking in your boots at the thought of arm-wrestling her.” 

“Brigitte!” Reinhardt tries to punish her by tickling her sides. She squirms and lets out a few undignified sounds before withdrawing her accusation, and he lets up.

 _  
_Arm-wrestling had probably been the furthest thing from his mind, after that narrow escape. She knows it had completely distracted her from remembering to grab some food before they left. Hell, she had completely forgotten about that wager until they were halfway back to the Watchpoint. Funny, how narrowly escaping death had a way of making things slip from your mind. Pretty strange to think that if things had gone just one shade differently, she could’ve been laying on the cold floor of the reactor instead of in her bed right now.

"Hey Reinhardt," Brigitte says, trying to keep her tone light. "Did you think that we were going to die? Back there, in the reactor?"

Again, his hands still. 

 _He’s probably got whiplash from the abrupt change in conversation_. Ugh, what was she doing, bringing up a depressing topic like this? She half-wishes she could revoke the question. Then again, she _does_ want to know the answer...

Reinhardt’s hands resume their motion hesitantly, mechanically, as he thinks of a response.

"In this line of work, you should not go into a mission expecting to survive," he says at last. The words are halting, carefully chosen. "We were in a very dangerous situation. If Hanzo had not called upon his - his _power_ , I do not think all of us would have emerged unscathed.”

He’s trying to spin it as positively as he can, she knows it. Maybe trying not to scare her. 

“It’s okay, Reinhardt. I thought it too.” she admits.

What she wishes she could put into words is the utter despair of that moment. The strange and crushing loneliness of knowing that there was so much she had left unaccomplished. It sweeps over her even now, the specter of what _could_ have been. And yet, there’s an undercurrent of emotion that runs even deeper. 

Abruptly she turns over, shifting underneath him. He stares down at her, looking surprised. That queer loneliness boils up, scalding her throat. “I-” she starts, but the acid eating at her makes her voice hoarse. She clears her throat and tries again. “I’m really glad we didn’t.” 

And _ugh_ , she finally recognizes the burning when it makes its way to her eyes. Reinhardt blurs. She tries to dash the tears away before he can see them, but there’s no stopping it. 

“ _Shildlein?_ ” he begins, startled but she flaps a hand at him, trying to let him know that she’s _fine_ , she’s _okay_ , she just needs to get a handle on her _stupid emotions_. But the tears won’t stop. Now that they’re flowing it’s like the dam’s been cracked. She can’t hold them back. 

She scoots out from beneath him, tucking herself up in a ball. Stupid little whimpering sounds are escaping her. Embarrassment wars with sadness, which only makes her cry all the harder. 

“ _Shildlein.”_  

The bed bounces as Reinhardt shifts. She’s not looking at him, but her body moves as his weight dips the mattress next to her. Suddenly warm arms are around her, lifting her. She doesn’t fight it, not even when he settles her in his lap. She only clings to him, burying her face against his chest. 

They could’ve died. They could’ve _died_ . She’s getting his shirt all wet. She could’ve died. Reinhardt could’ve died. Could she imagine it? Coming back to the Watchpoint without him? Without her father? Without _any_ of them? 

She _can_ imagine it, and that's possibly the most terrible thing of all.

Her emotions don’t make any damn sense. The sadness of what she could’ve lost is a storm raging through her, tearing her up inside. And yet, she remembers it so clearly: the brief moment of acceptance before Hanzo took charge where everything had become clear. She would face death proudly, maybe even welcome it.  As long as she was there with Reinhardt in the end, it would've been okay.

Her confused thoughts perpetuate the tears until her breath comes in ugly, heaving sobs. She’s hyperventilating, getting a little lightheaded and she tries holding her breath to combat it. 

It doesn't work. Her breath explodes out of her and turns into coughing. Her heart races.

Reinhardt brings her back to herself. He rubs a hand on her back, soothing her as her coughs taper back down to wet sniffles. Her nose is running, sticky clear mucus that’s hanging from her nostrils and getting onto his shirt. 

Ugh, she’s so _gross_ _._ She tries to suck it back in, only managing to clog her sinuses. 

The sadness has blown through her like a tornado, leaving her feeling tired and a bit hollow. It was like her emotions had been held on the other side of frosted glass; a thin barrier she hadn’t even realized was there until it was broken. Brigitte swipes a hand across her nose, trying to clean herself up a little. It only smears wetness on the back of her hand. 

“Sorry about your shirt,” she says thickly, using the inside of her own to try and mop up her face. 

One of his hands is still making slow sweeps across her shoulder blades. Brigitte is not feeling brave enough to look at him yet; she doesn’t want to see the expression on his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he says. His voice is a low rumble in her ear. 

“Not much to talk about, really,” she mumbles. “Guess I didn’t realize how much the thought of dying sucks.” Her voice wavers on that last note, and she swallows. The tears are still frighteningly close to the surface. 

“I know,” he says. His hand stops its stroking, instead traveling to cradle the base of her neck. He pulls her to him in a hug, which she whole-heartedly returns even though it smushes her chest against the wet patch of her tears. “The important thing is, you are alive. Do not let fear consume you.” 

“Yeah,” she agrees. She didn’t think it was possible to be more tired, but it turns out it is. Being physically and emotionally wrung-out is only half a step above complete unconsciousness. “I...I think I’m okay now. I think it kinda built up without me realizing it.”

She yawns, a jaw-cracking breath that still shivers at the end like a sob. “Ugh, I need a tissue.”

Reinhardt, kind soul that he is simply carries her to the bathroom and rips off a huge wad of toilet paper. She blows her nose loudly, now too tired to care about how much more she’s embarrassing herself, and lets him carry her back to bed. She’s strangely reluctant to let go, though she knows she can hardly cling to him all night. She has the strangest impulse to just invite him to sleep over. Maybe under the guise of him being her human teddy bear.

“Don’t tell Papa,” she says sleepily, gesturing between them. “About this. He’ll just get all worried.” 

Reinhardt pulls the covers over her. “Of course.” He pauses, ready to turn away. “Will you be able to sleep?”

Will she be able to sleep? That’s like asking if she’ll be able to eat _semlor_ if it’s put in front of her. 

“Mmmyeah,” she says, already halfway there. She watches through half-lidded eyes as he goes to the door and flips the lights off. “Reinhar’?”

His silhouette turns back toward her.

“Thanks.” 

He might say “You’re welcome”, but she isn’t sure. She’s already faded away. 

 

***

 

When Brigitte wakes up, it takes her a moment to figure out why her face feels so tight, why she's already got a slight headache.

Oh. Right. she had had a thoroughly embarrassing break down last night. _All over Reinhardt_.

Somehow she can't muster up any shame. As awkward as it had been. she still feels like emotionally wrung-out. Muted.

She checks her pad to find out that it’s a little after 8 pm. She’s been asleep for over 12 hours then. Though she could definitely sleep more, the empty pain in her stomach motivates her to crawl out from under the covers. If she can get a snack inside her, maybe then she’ll be able to go back to sleep.

Walking down to the mess hall she finds that she is not the only one up. Angela is in the kitchen, sipping on a cup of coffee. 

“Hey.” 

The word comes out more of a grunt than a proper greeting, but Angela seems to understand her feelings. She merely smiles over the rim of her mug and nods her head in hello. Brigitte rummages through the cupboard and tears open a box of granola bars. They desperately need to make a grocery run, or else no one is going to have much to eat soon.

Two granola bars help quiet her stomach, making her feel a little more human. Enough that she jokingly asks Dr. Ziegler why, even with nearly twelve hours of sleep she still feels so tired. It’s a question she hadn’t really wanted an answer to, but it seems to spark something in Angela. Her eyes brighten.

After nearly half an hour of a _very_ thorough explanation, Brigitte leaves the kitchen, mind buzzing under the onslaught of all the new information. Later she's able to parse it into something simple. Angela’s Caduceus system works by pushing the body's own cells into overdrive. Thus, every time her beam touches one of them, it causes their own bodies to cannibalize muscle and fat to promote accelerated healing. Ergo, the actual toll of the mission on them has been far greater than Brigitte even realized.

 _Poor McCree,_ she thinks. _He must be feeling worse than any of us._  

She crawls back into bed, mind swimming.

 

***

 

Brigitte sleeps fitfully through the night, waking every few hours. Her body is still confused, and by the time 4 am hits she’s not able to stay in bed any longer. She showers and heads for the kitchen again like a bird returning to roost. 

Again, she is not the only one awake. Both Reinhardt and Lena are there, partaking in coffee. _What is it with them and coffee?_  

“Morning,” she says, meeting Reinhardt’s gaze for half a second before her embarrassment forces her to look away. It feels too intimate. Like he’s looking at her and remembering every excruciating second of what it was like to deal with her hysterics. “You all sleep well?”

“Eh,” Lena seesaws her hand in an ‘okay’ motion. “Could’ve been better. Not too surprising though, it takes a couple days to get back into the swing of things.”

“Agreed,” Reinhardt says, taking a sip of his coffee.

“So, I was just thinking of heading to the store,” says Brigitte, going for another granola bar. “There’s not a lot of food, and I’m sure everyone is gonna be pretty hungry when they wake up. Either of you want to come?”

In the end, both of them agree. 

Lena takes the wheel while Brigitte sits sandwiched between her and Reinhardt in the less-than-spacious bench-style seats. She whistles brightly on the way into town, a sound that Brigitte finds a little _too_ cheery right at that moment. 

Reinhardt types up a shopping list on his pad on the drive over which he shares with them, and they each split up to tackle the supermarket in three sections. When they meet again their carts are piled high with what looks like enough food to feed an army.

Brigitte holds up two pies she had found. “Do you think Winston would like this?” One is a peanut butter pie, while the other is a banana cream pie. She thought he deserved something special, since he hadn’t gotten to choose their meal.

“Aw, he’ll love them!” Lena gushes at Brigitte’s thoughtfulness, while Reinhardt nods. 

Carrying their carload of groceries in is a task in itself. Brigitte has to fetch the equipment cart to make the job easier, and she and Lena unload it while Reinhardt fires up the stove. He’s intent on making a full english breakfast to attract the rest of the still-sleeping team. 

It feels good to be back.

 

***

 

_It makes sense. You were tired, that’s all._

Two days after her emotional breakdown, Brigitte is still trying to rationalize it. It makes sense, logically. She was very tired, and hungry, and maybe a little crazy from the jet lag. A perfect storm of factors. 

Those don’t explain her other feelings though. 

In the aftermath of the mission Brigitte feels _..._ strange _._ She hates to say it, but she feels like she's become _clingy._ It probably -no, _definitely_ \- has something to do with the fact that they came dangerously close to a failed mission.

Failed mission? _Say what it really was._ They almost _died._

Yes. They had almost died, and that thought still has a hold on her. Even a week later she finds herself thinking about it at odd times, usually when she’s alone. Buffing out the scratches in their armor, hammering the dents out of her pauldron, in the long moments when she lays in bed before she can manage to fall asleep - that’s when she thinks about it. And it makes her nervous.

Only one thing seems to help: company. Most of all Reinhardt.

It’s comforting to be with him. His presence is so large that there’s nothing else but him to focus on when they’re together, and when he’s gone...well. She doesn’t like that weird, empty feeling. 

To escape from it she sticks to him like glue. He doesn't seem to notice, but it's annoying her. She can't work on his fixing their armor if she can't keep herself in the workshop for more than fifteen minutes! 

 _Get a grip_ , she tells herself. _You've almost died before, this isn't anything new._

Except it is new. Because what's bothering her isn't that _she_ almost died. And besides, she hadn’t been aware of the danger to her then, the way she had been in the reactor. She tries to put it from her mind.

It doesn't work. 

Each sparring session and meal seems to take on new significance to her. Touching is tangible proof that they're alive. It's reassurance that she didn't wind up with a bullet between her eyes. It's reassurance that Reinhardt wasn't cracked open like a lobster and boiled in a torrent of lead.

She resorts to her pep talks in the mirror again, and they help...somewhat. Though sometimes they make her question if she's cracking up. In the end it is Lúcio that notices her struggles. 

"Hey Brig," he says one morning, three weeks after they've returned from Russia. "You got a minute?"

She's rinsing her plate in the sink, wiping the traces of bacon grease off it before she sticks it in the dishwasher.

"Yeah, what's up?" she says, taking his plate and rinsing it too.

"Uh, I just wanted to talk to you about something is all."

Something. That sounds remarkably non-specific. 

"Okay."

When he doesn't immediately start speaking, she understands that the conversation is meant to be private. She follows him out of the mess hall and back to his room, looking around at the glowing displays of his audio equipment. The gentle sound of music fills his room, a white noise that drowns out the sound of the ocean crashing against the Rock of Gibraltar. There’s a neon-green plush frog sitting on top of his desktop that she doesn’t remember seeing before. 

When at last he closes the door, she waits expectantly. He opens his mouth.

"Are you okay?"

She almost wants to burst out laughing. The gravitas leading up to this moment had her expecting something else entirely.

"Yeah, I'm fine! Why?" She puts a hand on her hip, eyeing him speculatively. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Me?" Lúcio looks a bit taken aback. His hand flies up to tap his chest, as though checking that it's really him she's talking to. "Yeah, I'm good, I'm good."

"Okay." Brigitte can help but let some of her amusement slip through with that word. She waits, expecting him to continue but he doesn't. "So…"

Lúcio buries his face in his hands. "Ughhhh this is _so_ much more awkward than I thought it would be!" He drops his hands to his sides, curling them into fists and pulling his shoulders back as if steeling himself. "Okay, okay, I'm just gonna ask it: are you and Reinhardt...a _thing?_ " He winces at the last word, as if expecting a blow.

"W-what?" Brigitte had not expected that question. Her face grows hot at the implication. Lúcio thought that-that she and Reinhardt were-

"No!" 

The denial explodes out of her vehemently. She actually claps a hand over her mouth as soon as the word escapes - it came out a lot louder than she was expecting - and she can feel how warm her cheeks are. " _Why_ would you think that?" she hisses through her fingers.

"Uh, well-" 

She isn't the only one embarrassed, it seems. Lúcio laces his fingers behind his back, twisting with discomfort. His eyes are going everywhere but her face.

"Well, you know, we just haven't been hanging out as much lately, and -" 

 _Is that really how it's coming across?_ She hadn't ever thought about what her and Reinhardt's relationship looks like to an outsider.

"-you sorta seem like...I dunno...stuck to him?" 

 _Holy crap._ Lúcio is right. She already knew she was being, well, clingy. But lately she's been spending every available moment with Reinhardt. Spending time training with him. Cooking with him. Skipping out on her other hobbies. Spending time in his room…

"Oh my God." This time it's she who covers her face with her hands. _No wonder he thinks that._ It looks bad. _Really_ bad. 

Brigitte leans back against the blue eggshell padding of Lúcio's door, groaning. 

"Okay," she starts. "I get why you would think that, I guess - but no." She pauses, thinking. The only way to explain this is to tell him everything that's been going on with her. Is that embarrassing? Yes. Is it less embarrassing than having him think she's dating - _sleeping with, Brigitte. He thinks you're sleeping with him_ \- Reinhardt? Definitely.

"Okay, sit down." She drops her hands from her face, though her cheeks are still burning. "Let me explain."

They both perch on the black duvet of Lúcio's bed, and Brigitte begins to talk. She tells him about Reinhardt coming to offer her a post-mission massage. She tells him about asking the stupid question that set her off. She tells him about crying like a baby all over Reinhardt.

"So, yeah. If blubbering like an idiot wasn't bad enough, now I've had this...this weird feeling ever since," she continues. There's a hangnail on her thumb, which she chews on absentmindedly. 

"I'm sure he didn't care that you were crying on him," Lúcio assures her. "Crying's normal. It's healthy. Probably good that you got it out, really." He leans back onto his hands. "But, what about your feeling?"

Brigitte slumps forward, hands on her knees. It's hard to put words to it. 

"It's just...weird," she says. Her eyes fall on one of his speakers, where a colorful display pulses to the beat with rainbow light. "It's like...ever since the mission, nothing feels quite real. Like I'll wake up any second and we'll still be in the reactor."

Lúcio nods, a silent encouragement.

"And, when I'm with Reinhardt it feels _more_ real. Or maybe...it's like his presence takes up enough attention that I don’t think about it or something. He’s an anchor." She blows out a breath, looking over to Lúcio. "I sound crazy, don't I?"

Lúcio sits forward so fast that his dreadlocks slap against his cheeks. "No! No, you don't sound crazy at all!" He touches her back gingerly, as if afraid she might burn him. "Really. I know exactly how you feel."

"You do?"

The way she looks at him must imply some skepticism, because he leans in, his voice dropping seriously. "Yeah, really." 

"How?" She hungers for an explanation. Anything to help her understand this.

Lúcio pulls one foot up onto his bed, knee pointing straight up. He curls his arms around it.  "So, it's kind of a long story but I'll cut out all the excess. You know how I pretty much spearheaded the revolt against the Vishkar Corporation, right? To keep them from tearing down the _favelas_."

Brigitte nods. She remembers how after Reinhardt had mentioned 'The Renegade of Rio' she had looked Lúcio up online and been amazed by him. Both his music and his freedom fighting had become legendary.

"Yeah, well, you can imagine that didn't make me very popular with them." His chin is propped on his knee, a faraway look in his eye. "They _may_ have put a hit out on me once. Or twice."

"They tried to have you killed?!" Brigitte explodes, aghast. There was never a mention of _that_ in any of the articles she had read.

 _Are you that surprised?_  

A small voice speaks in her mind, quietly insidious. _They didn't report on any of the other atrocities._ The curfews, poor working conditions and coercion Lúcio had railed against hadn't been reported either. Not until he had spoken out against it.

"Yeah. They weren't very good assassins." Lúcio smiles, a small, strange curl of his lips. It's not a happy expression. "People with Vishkar tech stick out like sore thumbs in my neighborhood. My people were able to warn me in time." He sighs. "Now, the one that almost got me? _That_ came from someone right outta Rio."

Brigitte thinks her eyes must be nearly popping out of her head. She would have never guessed that this sort of thing had happened to him. He's such an upbeat guy. How had he been hiding this kind of horror? And he’s being vulnerable with her, letting her see inside his heart.

Lúcio looks so small, tucked up in a ball on the black expanse of his duvet. This time it's she who puts a hand on his back. "You don't have to talk about if you don't want to."

He lets go of his leg, uncurling so that he can angle himself towards her. "Nah, I want to talk about it. I think it might help us both." He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the thick locks back over his shoulders. "So, yeah. The last attempt was a close one. Probably some _bacana_ hired someone to scout out the neighborhoods, find someone who had a grudge against me and pay them to kill me. Almost got me too - I had slipped out one night just to get away for a little and I got cornered in an alley."

Lúcio fingers the hem of his shirt, teasing the lime-green fabric between thumb and forefinger. "They tried to gut me. Nearly did too, but I guess they didn't think I was that fast. I kicked him in the knee, ducked his knife and got outta there."

He rucks his shirt up to his chest, pointing. Brigitte looks closely, and then she sees it. A thin, shiny line that wanders diagonally across the slope of his abdomen. 

"Oh God, that's crazy," she breathes. "I'm so sorry."

Lúcio drops his shirt and waves his hand at her. "No, don't be sorry. I'm not telling you this cuz I want you to feel bad for me." He inches closer to her, speaking almost conspiratorially despite the fact that they're alone in his room. "I'm telling you because _after_ that happened? I felt the same as you. It was weird."

He holds his hands in front of him, curling his fingers slightly as though trying to grab something. "It was like… I couldn't stop thinking about what would've happened if he _had_ gotten me. Or wondering if he did, and I was like, already dead and a ghost or something. I had nightmares about it for weeks. I was jumping at shadows."

He's got that faraway look on his face again. Brigitte finally recognizes it for what it is; he's _haunted_. Is that what she looks like, lost in her own thoughts? She wants to bring him out of it.

"What made you feel better?" 

It's like watching the sun rise. The transformation of Lúcio's expression from haunted to something serene is almost blinding.

"Two things, actually." He puts up his thumb. "My music," he puts up his index finger, "and Overwatch." He pulls an invisible trigger, finger-gunning like McCree. "Winston reached out to me not too long after all that went down, and I jumped. Gotta say, I was glad for a reason to get out of Rio for awhile. It didn't feel safe anymore."

He gestures to his room, the piles of sound equipment and his spin tables. "And getting away from that really helped me to get back to focusing on my music. It's like...my therapy. I can put down how I'm feeling into a song, and that helps me let it go."

Brigitte nods. She understands how that feels. It's like how she feels when she's absorbed in a new smithing project. Channeling her feelings into something new.

"Do you have something like that?" Lúcio asks, and it feels eerily like he is reading her mind.

She nods slowly. "I do. I just...haven't been motivated to do it lately. My brain just seems to want me to, uh...cling." 

Lúcio shrugs. "Well, the whole thing is still pretty recent. Could be that it's just too soon." He holds up a finger. "But, when you're ready, that's my advice. Find an outlet, and don't be afraid to tell people how you're feeling." 

Brigitte rubs her hands against her arms. She hasn't told anyone but Lúcio how she's feeling, not even Reinhardt. "Do you think I _should_ tell him?"

"Yeah!" Lúcio bounces off his bed, holding a hand out to her. She accepts it, and he helps her to her feet. "Don't feel like you have to rush it though. Tell him when you're ready." 

Brigitte squeezes his hand, still cradled in her own. "Thanks, Lu. You know, I think I already feel a little better."

She might be imagining the darkening of his cheeks, but she thinks her thanks might have embarrassed him. She lets his hand go. In the ensuing silence his music pulses, switching over to a new track.

Lúcio rubs the back of his neck and then points to his laptop. "So, uh...you wanna listen to what I've been working on?"

"Sure!"

 

***

 

When she leaves Lúcio's room to meet up with Reinhardt in the gym she has to admit that she does feel a little better already Talking about it has helped. It's nice to know that she's not the only one with these kinds of feelings.

As she stands over Reinhardt watching him bench press she thinks about what Lúcio had said. _Tell him when you're ready_. 

She takes her place on the bench next, immersing herself in the simple bunch and flex of her muscles. _When she's ready._ For some reason she feels like that'll be sooner rather than later. She's not very good at disguising what's on her mind.

Indeed, over dinner Brigitte finds herself contemplating just that. The only thing stopping her is the specter of her breakdown the other night; she's already had one emotional blowout. What if this talk sets off another? 

She is determined to take some of Lúcio's advice before involving Reinhardt. 

After weightlifting she marches down to the workshop, which is currently empty. Though part of her brain nags at her to go to Reinhardt, she ignores it.

"How are you going to finish his armor if you can't spend some time away from him?" she mutters to herself, pulling out her blueprints. Making headway on his armor is the project she is most passionate about right now. Maybe it'll help.

Before the mission she had pretty much gotten the armor design down. Now what she needs to do is decide how she's going to craft it: whether she will draw the plans up in 3D and order the parts custom or create her own molds for each piece. It would be a lot quicker for the first option, but if she does that she won't have any control over the quality of the finished product…

For the first time in a week Brigitte is able to lose herself in her work. When her stomach growls, she realizes that she's drafted right through lunch. She puts her plans away hurriedly. Reinhardt might come looking for her.

When she makes it to the kitchen it's to find it empty but for Winston, whose enormous rump she spies sticking out from the fridge. At the sound of her footsteps, he jerks his head back and slams the fridge door closed. He's wearing an expression that looks decidedly guilty.

"Hey Winston," she says, casually sliding by him to grab a plate and glass from the cupboard. "Anything good in there?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. Lots of leftovers." 

Brigitte sees a flash of silver - Winston is trying to hide a fork in the crease of his palm.

"Mind if I grab some?"

When Winston shifts out of the way, Brigitte reaches into the fridge to pull out the containers of leftover lasagne and garlic bread. In the very back she spies two familiar pie tins. They bear a startling resemblance to the pies she had bought for Winston nearly three weeks ago, but of course they aren’t. Those had disappeared with the first week, and she had decided to buy another set three days ago. There was after all no evidence that Winston had gotten any pie.

"Have you had any of those pies, Winston?" she asks as she loads her plate up with lasagne. 

"Um…" 

She turns to find him making a distinctively sheepish expression. It's so unexpected that she snorts a laugh.

"Oh, go on, have them! We got those for you, you know. You can eat the whole thing if you want."

Peanut-butter and banana cream pies _do_ sound good, but they’re not really her thing. Maybe if it was a peanut-butter and banana sandwich. 

"Really?" Winston opens up the fridge, and Brigitte hears the crinkle of plastic. "They're for me?"

"Of course they're for you! Didn't Lena tell you?" Brigitte punches the REHEAT button on the microwave and throws a piece of garlic bread into the toaster oven. She turns and leans against the counter, looking at Winston in surprise.

"Well, she said there was pie but nobody else had eaten any...I didn't want to be the first one," Winston trails off in a mumble, still cradling the pie tin. That guilty look hasn’t faded from his face.

"Well, they're for you. To thank you for the successful mission!" Brigitte pushes the pie gently towards him. "Go on. I won't tell." 

As she watches him carry off his dessert, she thinks that maybe each of them have their own coping mechanisms.

 

***

 

Brigitte lasts only two more days before caving into the urge to talk to Reinhardt. It's not that she wants to unburden her feelings persay, it's more that she wants to know what he thinks. Whether he's ever felt the same thing.

Lúcio's recommendations have already helped. Talking with him helped her feel far less alone. She's been working on a 3D model of Reinhardt's new armor in her spare time, building it in the software on her pad.

But still, she wants to know.

Brigitte decides to wait to spring the question on him until the evening. If things go sideways - _or, you cry all over him again_ \- she'll have the convenient excuse of being tired to use as an escape. 

After a rather festive movie night, ("It's only November, Lena! Why are we watching Christmas movies?) she showers quickly and then finds herself standing in front of his closed door in her pajamas. She's feeling uncharacteristically nervous. Why? The worst that can happen has already happened.

She knocks.

When she hears the muffled invitation, she opens the door and steps inside. Reinhardt is reclining on his computer chair, feet propped up on his bed as he scrolls through his pad.

"Good evening," he says, clicking off the pad's display and turning to face her.

"Hey." She gives him a small smile that feels a little weak. _C'mon. It's Reinhardt. He won't care._ She wastes no time in spitting out the line that she's been rehearsing for the last ten minutes.

"Can I talk to you about something?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bacana - rich person


	24. Old Wounds

_“Whoever said that loss gets easier with time was a liar. Here's what really happens: The spaces between the times you miss them grow longer. Then, when you do remember to miss them again, it's still with a stabbing pain to the heart. And you have guilt. Guilt because it's been too long since you missed them last.”  - Kristin O'Donnell Tubb_

 

When Brigitte turns up on his doorstep that evening, Reinhardt can tell something is off. It may be in the way she is avoiding his gaze, or how her smile doesn't quite meet her eyes. He puts his pad down, suspending his email to Artur and takes his feet from the bed.

"You mind if I talk to you about something?"

He waves a hand, inviting her inside. "Of course not." 

She perches on the edge of his bed, and he moves to join her. The expression on her face is unusually somber. When she shivers, he chides himself for not realizing how cold it is. He strips the navy blanket off his bed and wraps it around her shoulders. Gratefully she accepts it, pulling its fuzzy edges tight to her.

She shows no sign of speaking, despite her question. Still, he does not press her. Instead he pulls her to him, tipping her against his side to share his warmth. That seems to do it; he can feel her clear her throat.

"So, um…" she begins, speaking against his ribs. "Have you ever felt weird after a mission?"

The question is not unexpected, even if the phrasing leaves something to be desired. Still, he knows exactly what she means.

"Weird in what way?" he says, just for clarification.

She shivers against him, and holds her more tightly. He considers pulling back the bedcovers and tucking her inside.

"I dunno. I'm not very good at explaining it." She takes a deep breath. "I guess sometimes I've been feeling like the world isn't...real? Like I'm dreaming, and when I wake up I'll still be in the reactor." 

Reinhardt looks down to see her tucking her nose under the blanket. "It sounds dumb, I know." Her voice is muffled, filtering through the thick sherpa.

"It does not sound dumb," he says, squeezing the arm around her in a gentle rebuke. "Do not disparage yourself." He pauses, considering her words. "Are you having nightmares?"

Immediately she shakes her head. "No, no nightmares. Just that weird feeling." Brigitte hunches under the blanket, and this time Reinhardt does decide to act. 

He pulls back the covers from the side of the bed and props his pillows against the wall, creating a makeshift sofa. "Here," he says, lifting the bedcover in invitation. He joins her, fluffing the comforter over them both. Then he pauses, thinking of how to start. 

"What you are feeling is not unexpected," he begins. "It...happens. The danger we are in, the things we see...the mind can not always guard against it. These experiences can have a lasting impact." He stops to gather his thoughts. He is not eloquent when it comes to delicate matters such as this. 

Brigitte spares him an awkwardly long pause by asking another question. "Have _you_ felt something like this then?"

_A silver coin flips through the air, and he catches it deftly._

_"I have been called, I must answer."_

He feels a curious twist in his stomach. A bittersweet ache as an ancient well of pain opens, spilling both hurt and fondness from its depths. Oh yes, he knows. 

He thinks about telling her about when he first arrived at Watchpoint Italy, fresh out of Eichenwald and hollowed by the loss of Balderich. How he drifted for weeks on a fog of emptiness and confusion. About the nightmares. About the endless thoughts of 'what if'. _What if  he hadn't engaged that OR-14. What if he had reacted faster. What if he had refused to leave Balderich's side._

How more than once, he wished it had been him who died.

He settles for condensing it down to "Yes."

"How did you get back to feeling normal?" 

Ah, isn’t that the question he wishes he had an eloquent response for? _How?_ He had plenty of help. Usually in the form of Amari's frank conversations. She had helped him to sublimate his feelings into a drive to improve himself, to become stronger and honor Balderich’s memory.  _Ana, lend me your voice._

"I had someone to talk to," he says. "She listened. She helped me untangle the feelings I was having by pointing out the errors in my thoughts. She also gave me, ah, some exercises to do." _Exercises? More like channeling your feelings through your hammer,_ Amari smirks.

"Exercises?" Brigitte looks up at him, hopeful. "Lúcio told me how he used his music to deal with it."

She had talked to Lúcio then, hmm?

"He is right. Creative pursuits can be very helpful," he agrees. He himself had tried a number of things before discovering cooking. 

"He also said talking about it helped him." She folds her fingers together, twisting them into the covers. "He said I should talk to you."

"Lúcio is very wise. If you have people to help support you through this, recovery can be much easier." 

_"Bottling these feelings up is a recipe for an explosion," Amari says flatly. She guides his fists down, away from his hair where his fingers have knotted like iron bars. "Talk to me, Wilhelm."_

Reinhardt looks down at Brigitte, whose fingers are still twisted nervously. "Have you found something that is helping you?" 

More furtive movement. She's looking away from him towards the opposite wall, as if there is something interesting carved into the gray stone.

"I think so. Talking with Lúcio helped, and I've been working on some smithing projects, and…"

The wringing stops.

"...spending time with you."

It's clear that she expects some kind of reaction from him. The way she's gone still is reminiscent of an animal on high alert.  

"With me, eh?" He sweeps and arm over her again, flexing so that she falls against him. "Am I so great a distraction?" He's joking lightly, trying to ease some of the tension she's holding. It works. She smacks a hand against his stomach, but with no real force. 

"You're ridiculous, that's what you are." 

It's earned him a smile though. She turns up to meet his gaze, though after a moment her eyes dart back down.

"But, what I mean is - it helps. Things feel a little more real when we're sparring, and lifting and cooking. _Doing_ stuff."

 _Mentorship._ He knows it. Amari taking him under her wing had helped more than he could ever say. First him, then Jesse; she had truly been the team’s mother.

“It is true, simply returning to normal activities can help give you a sense of stability,” Reinhardt acknowledges. “Routines help. And, time.” And isn’t that really what it comes down to, in the end? _Time?_ Letting the mind scar over those hurts? 

“Brigitte...one thing you must know is that recovery is not instant _._ You may not feel noticeably better today. Or even tomorrow. Some days you may feel worse; it is as much a process of dealing with slipping backward, as it is stepping forward. But you _can_ do it.”

She sighs, one small quavering note of distress. “How long?” 

Reinhardt squeezes her against him again. “I cannot say. It is different for everyone.” He rubs a hand along her arm, trying to soothe her. “I would say already you are moving in the right direction. I myself did not speak to anyone voluntarily at first; Amari had to pull it out of me.”

Her face contorts in confusion. "The sniper?" 

Ah, yes. He's never really told her what Ana Amari meant to him. What she did for him. Only stories of her legendary shooting skills, her keen mind. Her bravery.

He begins to talk.

 

***

 

By the time he finally falls silent, the digital display on the wall reads half-past nine; he's been talking for almost forty-five minutes. Brigitte reclines against him, loose-limbed and warm. She had finally relaxed as his stories unfolded.

"Wow. I never knew," she says. "She sounded really special to you." Her eyes hold a soft sort of wonder. "I wish I had gotten to meet her."

"I wish that too," he admits. He thinks Amari would have liked her. She had teased him enough in years past about shaping his goddaughter into his miniature, much to Torbjörn's chagrin. 

Brigitte sighs quietly. Then she surprises him by slapping a hand down on his thigh.

"Well, I'm glad I talked to you." Her tone is brighter, more business-like. "I think I have a good idea of how to work on myself now." She gives him a smile, and this time it meets her eyes. "I think I've had enough of wallowing in my feelings for today. Wanna watch a movie?"

And just like that, Brigitte closes the book on her emotions. He doesn't mind. There is only so much they can process in one day, and he thinks they've had a very productive talk. More importantly, he thinks she knows she _can_ talk to him if she needs something.

"Fine," he says. "What do you want to watch?"

As they set to debating the merits of romance versus true crime films, he feels that bittersweet twist in his chest again. How nice it would have been, to protect Brigitte from these realizations. To spare her from the heartache of knowing how fragile life is. How transient. He should have known he couldn’t protect her forever. 

Still, he feels a kernel of warmth inside. She came to him. He knows Brigitte trusts him, but this is undeniable proof: he has her confidence. 

And he will do anything to keep it.

  


***

 

As they slide into mid-November and training resumes, Reinhardt keeps a close eye on Brigitte. Now that he knows of her troubles he is keen to do what he can to help her, and if spending time with him is part of it, well, it is certainly not a burden. 

They continue their training, with an occasional appearance from Lucio. Their usual once-weekly movie nights increase to bi-weekly. She still disappears to her workshop regularly, so he is not worried about her becoming overly dependent on him.

“How are you feeling?” becomes a routine question. Though there are no more of the frank heart-to-hearts of the previous weeks, it feels like a new avenue of friendship has been opened to them. He had never expected to have such closeness with his goddaughter, but he cherishes it all the same.

They find a new normal. Winston devises new sim routines, Torbjörn and Brigitte assist in developing a newer, hardier type of ‘bot to more closely resemble real combat. McCree undergoes minor surgery to remove a bone fragment that is pressing on one of his nerves, and is out of sims for a week. He spends his free time heckling them from the sidelines. Hanzo threatens to shoot him, and he relocates so that he can continue heckling them over the intercom. When he is well enough to return, at some point during his first sim back his hat disappears. It reappears later with two holes in the crown that line up perfectly.

It’s their new normal.

One Wednesday afternoon in the last week of November, something changes. Just before sims are about to kick off, Winston stops, a hand at his ear. It’s a position Reinhardt knows well; Athena is speaking to him. He turns to face them. 

“We have a visitor.”

They follow him en-mass to the hangar. It’s the only entry point to the Watchpoint by air or by land, but there’s no sign of an aircraft landing on the helipad. Torbjörn opens the door to the tunnel out and when they make their way to the other end, the slate-gray walls part to reveal a short woman in a powder-blue parka.

At least, Reinhardt _thinks_ its a woman. The round swell of her hips seems to give that away, but the hood of the parka is pulled up and cinched against the cold. A white ruff of fur disguises most of her face, but he gets the impression of brown bangs and wide, upturned eyes before Winston lopes forward to greet her. 

“Winston!” The strange woman throws her arms around his neck in greeting, and he returns the embrace with a gentle pat on the back. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you. It’s been so long!”

“It has,” he agrees. He turns to see the confused, waiting crowd behind him. “Uh, let’s get you out of the cold, okay?” He ushers her inside, punching the button that lowers the door. “Everyone, this is -”

“Hiya, everyone!” The woman interrupts him, bursting with excitement. As the door closes behind her she pulls down her hood revealing a round, friendly face. “I’m Mei-Ling Zhou!”

Mei-Ling Zhou, or “just Mei” is the climatologist Winston had mentioned many weeks ago. He had even sent out an email with a link to her blog, which Reinhardt had never investigated. She had been detailing her foray into other abandon ecopoints and Watchpoints in Asia and Europe, he remembers. 

Winston decides to forego their sim training today, much to the chagrin of Hanzo. He does not seem to care much about their new addition, though he deigns to stay when they gather in the mess hall at the longest table. Winston wants to hear firsthand of her adventures. 

Reinhardt stands in the kitchen, stirring cocoa powder, vanilla, and sugar into a pot of heating milk. He is making hot chocolate for everyone, a practice that has become common in these cold months. The rock of Gibraltar is unforgivably cold, especially in the mess hall. The enormous stone room does not lend itself well to heating. Hot cocoa at least gives them something warm to clutch while they listen. 

Brigitte stands next to him, setting out mugs. She puts down ten at first, then pauses. 

“Does Genji drink hot chocolate?” she whispers. 

Reinhardt shakes his head. “He prefers not to remove his visor. But he may appreciate the gesture all the same.” 

He ladles portions of the steaming drink into the mugs, and together he and Brigitte serve their companions. Mei takes hers with a beaming smile and hardly an interruption in the flow of her chatter. 

“-few weeks I spent near Mount Logan, just testing out the endothermic blaster. I wanted a place where I couldn’t...well, where it wouldn’t affect people. Once I figured out its capabilities I parsed through some of the data to find geographic regions of the anomaly that were closer to the old stations, and visit them on-”

She seems very nice. Reinhardt listens with interest as she describes visiting an outpost in Canada. All the usual security protocols had failed, but for the locks on the doors which she had frozen off. 

"It didn't look like anyone had been there since the shutdown. Power was out to everything, no running water. I just took the data off the hard drives-"

He wonders how many of the old outposts still function. How many of them still contain valuable data. Perhaps it was something they should've considered before now; any enterprising agency with nefarious intents could ferret the old ecopoints out as Mei had. 

Mei talks, and they listen. Occasionally Winston interrupts with a question. The cocoa dwindles.

"I was going to make my way through Asia next. There's definitely some atmospheric fluctuations over Ürümqi, but I decided I would stop in and say hi on my way!" she finishes in a rush. Until then her chocolate hadn't been touched, but she slurps it now. When she emerges from her mug her glasses have fogged. The cocoa is still warm enough to steam.

"Oh - how rude of me! I haven't asked about any of you! I know Winston, but..." She trails off, embarrassed. 

Genji is the first to volunteer, beginning a train of introductions that move clockwise around the table. When it is Reinhardt's turn, Mei gasps. 

"Oh, I've heard about you! You're the knight!" Mei gushes, nearly slopping her cocoa over the rim of her mug. 

Reinhardt smiles. His reputation precedes him. "Yes, I am. And this is my squire, Brigitte." He gestures to his left, where Brigitte sits. 

"Yeah, I keep his armor from falling apart," Brigitte jokes. 

"Well, it's nice to meet you both. I have a squire too, I guess," Mei giggles. "I forgot to introduce him. Snowball!"

From the canister on her back, something moves. There's a whirring sound, and then up over Mei's shoulder pops a little drone. It's modeled in the form of the Asian droids, a small, pixel-style display bearing two round, blue eyes. It trills at them, a sound that rises in pitch, questioning.

"Snowball, say hi to everyone!"

The drone sweeps around them, the flaps on its body rising and falling like the ears of an excited elephant. When Winston holds up a curious palm, it lights there.

"What is it?" Reinhardt thinks he can see a gleam behind Winston's glasses, and plans to make his exit.

Lena seems to have the same thought. 

"Hey, Mei! Do you want to pick out a room?" She gestures to the huge backpack that Mei had carried in with her. "We can put your stuff in there."

"Oh, sure!" Mei turns her head to Winston, who is still cradling Snowball. "If you want I can show you the data Snowball collected. He takes samples from different layers of-"

Reinhardt watches them go with a wave, the remaining agents stay behind to help him gather up the mugs.

"So, uh. No sims today. Want an extra long sparring session?" Brigitte finishes loading up their rinsed glasses and shuts the dishwasher. 

Over her shoulder, Angela tsks. "You two be careful now. Don't overdo it!" she cautions. Perhaps she is remembering the last time that happened, when Brigitte had complained of sore muscles for three days. 

"We won't!" Brigitte looks around, a wide smile curling her lips. "Anyone else want to join? We're grappling today."

 

***

 

"I can't believe no one wanted to join," Brigitte grumbles as they square off across the mat. "I'm not _that_ scary."

"Perhaps it is not _you_ they were afraid of." 

Reinhardt circles to his left, looking for an opening. Brigitte begins to mirror him, so that the space between them remains constant.

"What, you think they're afraid to fight _you?"_ Brigitte blows air out through her lips, disbelieving. " _Pffff._ "

"Why, you-!"

Reinhardt feints to his right then lunges, intent on wrapping up his cheeky squire but she dances out of his grasp. They go back to circling.

"Though, I'm pretty sure Genji _almost_ took me up on it. I think he was interested." She drops her guard completely, feigning a thoughtful pose. It's meant to bait him, but he won't fall for it so easily.

Next it is Brigitte who attacks. She ducks towards him, keeping her body low as she goes for a takedown. It’s a technique that might work on an attacker without his arm span. Unfortunately for her, it’s all too easy for him to drop to his knees before she can get to him. 

With a sweep of his arm he takes out her legs, driving his shoulder forward and down into the ground. In a flash he has her trapped in a mount, and he can feel her knees move on either side of him as she prepares to roll him. Before she can, he grapevines her. Now she cannot raise her hips.

"Not cool," she gasps as his weight presses down. "I almost had the transition!"

"Do you know what to do from here?" 

"Uh, maybe?" Suddenly her hands are at his waist, scrabbling at his tank top as she goes for a ticklish spot.

"Poor technique!" he admonishes her, barely stopping himself from instinctively squirming away. "You can't count on this working on an enemy!" 

"Yeah, well, but I also don't think I'll ever _actually_ fight a Talon goon who knows jujitsu either."

Reinhardt releases the grapevine, transitioning to an easier escape. "Try your escape now," 

She does, bending her knee up and trapping his right foot with the inside of her ankle. With a tight hold on his right arm she lifts her hips and rolls to her left, winding up in his guard.  

"Better?" She traps his arms as she says this, a loose hold that he could break easily.

"Better, but I had you before. Perhaps we should work on the speed of your reaction to a mount.”

Brigitte pouts from between his thighs, then relents. "Fine. But you have to show me how to get out of that ankle-lock thing."

The next two hours of grappling are productive. By the end of it Brigitte is able to break his mounts quickly and instinctively. She sprawls on the mats when he calls it a day, letting her auburn hair fan out onto the black mat.

"Oh man, I'm going to feel that tomorrow!" 

She groans and pats her abdomen. Reinhardt can feel it too; though it is much easier for him to roll her, the constant twisting of his core is not something he is used to.

"Do not complain in front of Angela, or she will have both our hides."

He fetches the bottle of cleaning spray and a rag and begins to spray down the mat, pointedly avoiding the spot that Brigitte lays. After a few long seconds she raises her arms up, and he helps her to her feet.

Together they clean the mats and plot what to make for dinner. Ever since they returned from Russia, Brigitte has taken an active interest in learning to cook. Or perhaps he should say learning to bake. She has far more interest in crafting the food she loves to eat above everything else. 

“I want to try to make a ‘Welcome’ cake for Mei,” she says as they head towards the kitchen. Reinhardt thinks tonight he may make stir fry again. It is easy, and there are plenty of vegetables to use up. 

“That is a nice sentiment. What sort of frosting were you thinking? And what flavor of cake?”

Brigitte freezes, then whips out her pad. He laughs as she scrolls through a search engine, reading about the different varieties of frosting. 

“...maybe I’ll just make cookies instead.” 

Cookies are good. She’s gotten much better at them with each subsequent attempt.

Kitchen time has become a sort of dance for them. They work in harmony, pulling the required ingredients, preparing and chopping vegetables, sauteing meat, fetching seasonings. Brigitte has become quite adept at recognizing what he needs next and getting it for him before he even has to ask. She is always conscientious of his blind side, tapping him on the arm when she’s in his blind spot. It’s nice. He hasn’t had this sort of effortless nonverbal communication with anyone in quite some time, except perhaps Torbjörn. Back in the day they had been very good at communicating across the battlefield.

While the stir fry begins sizzling in the wok, Brigitte gathers her baking supplies. From the way she moves, Reinhardt knows that she’s using a recipe committed to heart. When he sees her grab the chocolate chips, he knows it is.

“Everybody likes chocolate chip cookies, right?” she says, laying out her bowls and measuring cups.

“I am sure she will appreciate any gesture.”

The smell of the stir fry begins to attract attention. McCree is the first to arrive, dutifully heading to lay out plates and silverware. By the time stir fry is done, Brigitte has her first round of cookies in the oven. 

Over the next half-hour the rest of the agents arrive, and Brigitte hustles to get her cookies finished in time. 

“Oh man, I didn’t think this through!” 

Reinhardt turns to see her trying to spell out ‘Welcome’ with the cookies on the cookie sheet, but the cookies are far too large and the sheet too small. ‘We’ is all that fits. She opts instead to pile the finished product on one sheet, and when Mei and Winston arrive to dinner she presents it to Mei with a cheerful “Welcome to Gibraltar!”

“See, I told you she would appreciate it,” Reinhardt mutters in Brigitte’s ear as Mei thanks her profusely and takes two cookies immediately. 

Dinner is a much louder affair than normal. Mei’s happy chatter fills the room; she seems to have a kind word for everyone, and about everything. She oohs and ahhs over Reinhardt’s cooking (“You do this _every night_? Maybe I will stay a little longer…”) to the ambiance (“So, team dinners are a regular thing? That’s so cool!”) to McCree’s outfit. It makes him just that more aware of how lonely she must have been. Waking up to find all her friends and colleagues dead? That is his own personal nightmare.

The warmth in the Watchpoint is palpable tonight. He hates to be the one to ruin it, but he’s only just remembered something. He needs to tell the team of what Zarya had mentioned to him in Russia. The assassination attempt. He had held off, at first not wanting to disturb Brigitte’s emotional state, then outright forgotten about it. But now…

“Winston.” Reinhardt pulls him aside as Winston heads for the tray of cookies. “I have something I must tell you about. Something everyone needs to know.” 

He gives Winston a quick rundown of the situation, voice lowered as to not be overheard. Telling them will come soon, but he knows that Winston may want to do his own deep dive for more information before announcing everything to the group at large. There may yet be more data that Reinhardt himself does not have access to.

“That happened pretty recently,” Winston acknowledges. He holds a cookie delicately between two fingers, but does not eat it. “And I definitely didn’t see anything about that in the news.” The hand not holding the cookie rubs at his chin thoughtfully. “Thanks for telling me. I need to see what I can find out about this first, if that’s okay.”

“Perfectly fine,” Reinhardt agrees. 

“I’ll probably call a meeting within the week. This just feels like...it feels like another piece in a puzzle I can’t solve.” Winston absentmindedly picks up another cookie, stacking it with the other. 

“I know what you mean.” Reinhardt takes a cookie for himself. “Talon has been very active as of late. I think they are planning something big.” 

“Yeah. I think so too” Winston sighs. “We _need_ to figure it out. Before whatever it is happens.”

It’s a somber thought. One that sticks with Reinhardt long after Winston departs. He is a bit quieter through dessert, and a bit distracted during the movie following, though Brigitte doesn’t notice it. Perhaps his mood has unconsciously telegraphed to her, because the following morning she herself seems a bit distracted. Her moods have been a bit more mercurial ever since they came back. He pays it no mind. 

Much later he will think that perhaps he should have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this week. 
> 
> Updates will probably slow down further as I'm about to start school up, but I do intend to update at the very least once a month. Upcoming chapters are going to be much longer. Thanks to everyone still reading for sticking with the story!


	25. Tread Softly

__Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,  
A boundary between the things misnamed  
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,  
And a wide realm of wild reality

_ \- The Dream,  _ Lord Byron

 

__

_ Brigitte circles the mat, pacing Reinhardt step for step. They're both looking for an opening, but it's almost always him that attacks first. True to form, he leads with a feint which she easily reads. She prefers to play the waiting game when they grapple, letting him wear himself out a little before going in for the– _

_ –with unexpected speed, he lunges for her. Reinhardt can be quite quick when he wants to be, and she hadn’t anticipated such aggression this early in the match. One broad hand catches the backside of her knee, his shoulder pressing snugly into stomach. When he yanks her legs out from under her the rest of his momentum brings them both to the floor. _

_ Brigitte scrabbles frantically, trying to slip from his hold before he can get her into his guard but it’s too late. He has her. _

_ His weight presses down, his arms pinning hers while his hips hold her firmly in place. She struggles to get him in a position to flip, but it’s no use, her brain has frozen, forgetting the movements. At last she stills, recognizing defeat. _

_ “So, what did you do wrong?”  _

_ The words are gentle, the tone almost teasing in it's rebuke. It's what he always says when he's trying to teach her something; he likes to see if she can carry her own analysis first though. _

_ She can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, ghosting over the shell of her ear. He still hasn't released the pin, despite his victory. _

_ Everything is warm. _

_ “Uh...I panicked.” She struggles to remember each move, each reaction. What should she have done? “I – should’ve tried for a roll sooner.” _

_ “Hmmm, that is one option.”  _

_ It's not the answer he's looking for. He'll only release her when she gets it right, but her brain is a haze of static, frazzled thoughts. She’s so very warm.  _

_ “Yeah? And the other option?” She gives up, waiting for his answer. Is it her imagination, or can she feel one of his hands cupping the back of her head? _

_ The hard planes of his body intersects hers, a familiar tangle of hard and soft. Heavy. He's immovable, unrelenting. She can feel the heat boiling up between them.  _

_ “This.”  _

_ He tilts her head to the side, mouth dipping to the junction of her neck and shoulder. Sparks of sensation leap from that point of contact, racing through her veins. She realizes, at some point he's released her arms. One of her hands comes up to caress the back of his head, holding him to her.  _

_ Oh, she’s got him now. _

_ In a flash she pulls her knees up on either side of him, right foot out to push. At the same time she pulls his opposing shoulder so that they roll, ending up with her astride him. He’s released her throat in his surprise, and she sits back, gloating.  _

_ “Shouldn’t have let your guard down.”  _

_ It's the most  natural thing in the world, seeing him like this. Her hands stroke across his chest. Somehow she’s never noticed how small they are compared to the span of him. His arms come back up, snaking around her back and she expects that she’ll lose her position – but he doesn’t throw her. He pulls her against him firmly, tugging her down towards his face – _

When Brigitte awakens, its to the confusing sensation of pleasure mixed with a squirming bewilderment. Her conscious mind flounders, still half-entrapped in the lingering trails of sleep. The warmth remains, pooling in her belly like hot buttered rum. Tendrils of sharper sensation grip her even lower, and as her mind comes fully awake she registers that sensation as...arousal? 

_ What the heck? _

She rolls over in bed, curling on her side like a shrimp. One hand plumps her pillow while the confusion swirls through her mind. Both the heat flaring in her and the last tendrils of the dream drain away, leaving only bewilderment and exhaustion. _Weird,_  is the only thought her sleep-fuzzed brain can manage _._  It’s dark and cold in her room. The sound of the ocean through the rock walls is a comforting white roar. Sleep is still so close; it’ll be all too easy to just close her eyes and sink back into those unknowing depths. 

_ Can't help your dreams _ . 

Logic asserts itself, offering solid comfort that allows her to pull the covers more snugly around her and fall back asleep.

 

***

 

The next morning when she wakes up, it takes Brigitte a moment to realize why she feels a little off. Just a hint of disquiet, that at first she attributes to having overslept. She checks her pad, realizing that actually, she’s awake before the alarm can sound. Only by 3 minutes though, which makes going back to sleep pointless. 

She yawns, stretching like a cat beneath the covers to preserve the cocoon of warmth there. Despite the popping of joints and the pleasant stretch of her muscles, she feels a queer, lingering sort of mental tension that at first she can’t place, not until she sits up in bed and the memory floods back.

_ The dream. _

She hasn’t had a dream like that  _ ever _ \- as far as she’s aware. More often than not she doesn’t remember them in the first place, which may be what makes this one so odd. Never mind the physical sensation - 

She shivers, the chill of the room sinking into her skin as she makes her way from the bed to the bathroom. As she waits for the shower water to begin steaming, she turns the memory over in her mind dubiously, examining it like a foreign coin.

It had started out so normally. Sparring with Reinhardt, an everyday occurrence; it wouldn’t even be the first time she’d had a dream about that, or metalsmithing, or any other number of things that have become her routine. But that  _ feeling.. _ .

Brigitte steps under the spray of the shower, basking in the warmth and giving herself the mental count of three before ripping off the band-aid.

She’d had what was basically equivalent to a sex dream, starring Reinhardt. 

She shudders again. The water isn’t as warm as she had thought, and she cranks the handle a little further to the left. Soon the spray is hot enough to be uncomfortable, and she sinks down into a crouching position to give the water extra distance to cool off before it reaches her. 

Yeah, so what. It was a dream, and dreams are weird. They’re like a test of mental gymnastics for your brain: seeing how far it can bend and twist to accept whatever happens as normal.  _ Natural _ . Consciousness is like a switch, snapping the high-wire and throwing everything into shocking reality. 

The water soaking her hair drips down over her forehead, runs into her eyes and mouth. She blows a hard stream of air, spraying a fine mist of water onto the shower wall, still enjoying the warmth too much to get up and start washing. 

You can’t control your dreams. She knows this, so she shouldn’t be embarrassed by it, or even give it a second thought. It means nothing more than the fact that she’s neglected certain needs for far too long.  

Well.. She'll just have to deal with it.

 

***

 

Brigitte feels considerably more relaxed as she scarfs down her breakfast. So much so that she’s sunk into a haze of half-thought, have pleasant unawareness and at first she doesn't register that Lena is talking to her.

"–plans for Christmas?"

Brigitte jerks her head up, a link of sausage almost falling into her lap. "Sorry, what?"

"I was just asking if you had any plans for Christmas," Lena says patiently, scooping up another forkful of egg and tomato into her mouth. 

"Oh! Uh…"

Brigitte hasn't really thought about Christmas. Maybe she should. It's only a month away and she hasn't even thought about gifts, or asked Reinhardt when he wants to go back to Sweden.

"Well, I usually go to my parents house and spend the week with them.” Brigitte nibbles the sausage off the end of her fork. "Nothing crazy. What about you?"

"Emily and I try to join Winston here every year for hols. He cooks a mean Christmas dinner, we put the telly onto that 24-hour yule log channel and we exchange gifts.”  Lena leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "And this year I didn't wait 'til the last minute on his gift! I think he'll be darn chuffed when he sees it."

"Yeah?" Brigitte hadn't even considered getting her teammates gifts. Dang, she really needs to get it together. Gifts for her parents, siblings, and teammates - looks like it’s time to rework the budget. "What did you get him?"

"That's a secret." Lena winks at her. "Not that I think you'd tell, but, y'know. Fewer people know, less of a chance he'll find out."

Reinhardt's arm lands heavily on Brigitte's shoulders and she jumps. "What are you two whispering about over here, eh?" He leans in over the top of them, and she can feel the heat of him against her side. Its familiar. Normal. She can smell the spice of his deodorant even through the thick fabric of his sweater.

"Oh, uh...not much." The words spill out of her mouth a little too quickly. "Just Christmas plans and..things."

"You are thinking of Christmas already?" His arm falls away as he goes back to digging into his own plate. "No doubt you're eager for the holiday feast. Ingrid cooks enough to feed an army!”

“Oh that’s right, you lot celebrate together don’cha?” Lena chases the last bit of egg and tomato around her plate with her spoon. “That must be some rowdy gathering. Your mum must know how to put up with a lot!”

Brigitte laughs, because Lena’s hit it right on the head. Their gatherings are every bit as loud and boisterous as she probably imagines. Her family, combined with all her nieces and nephews and Reinhardt are unruly, but no one can bring them to order faster than her mother armed with a long wooden spoon. 

“Mama knows how to handle us.” She smiles, thinking perhaps this year she’ll take some pictures to bring back to show everyone. Or even a video, right at the moment Ingrid declares lunch to be served. It’s a sight to be seen.  

“Do you have a very large family?” Mei asks, listening in on the conversation. That’s right; Mei had told them a great deal about herself last night. Brigitte isn’t sure many of them had returned the favor.

“Yeah, so I have two brothers and a sister, Ella, Liam and Mikael –” she goes on to outline the family dynamic and name all eight of her nieces and nephews. They’re all of an exuberant young age that makes the family gathering so hectic, even the oldest of them seem to forget their manners in their excitement on Christmas Eve. She even explains Reinhardt’s relation to the Lindholms, which Mei seems to find extremely interesting. 

“I didn’t know Overwatch ran in your family!” Mei jokes. “It must be nice, to have them close.”

Brigitte smiles, though it is a bit strained. That’s how she had felt too, at first. More thrilled with being able to be near her Papa and Reinhardt than concerned for what might lay ahead for them. Now that she knows what missions are like...well. 

_ Don't worry about it. _

Brigitte falls back on her mantra, closing off that thought. Papa and Reinhardt have survived the Omnic War and tens of other missions. They're strong enough to handle whatever comes their way.

She finishes her chat with Mei, and as Brigitte gets up to put her dishes away she can still feel the ghostly imprint of Reinhardt’s arm bearing down on her shoulder. 

 

***

 

Winston calls a meeting just after sims that afternoon.

As they pile into his war room, Brigitte can tell from the look on Winston's face that whatever they're about to talk about won't be pleasant. There's a rigid set to his jaw; it's almost grim. 

Or maybe he's just cold. All of them walking through the massive door to his compound has let in a burst of icy air that the heater seems to be struggling to mitigate. Brigitte has to repress her own shudder as the cold sinks its claws into her, clinging eagerly to the lingering sweat on her back and shoulders.  _ Note to self: bring blanket to next meeting. _ She takes her usual seat between Reinhardt and Lúcio and tucks her feet up onto the chair. 

"Okay, just a few things to go over before we get to the topic of our meeting today." Winston pushes his glasses up on his blunt nose, peering down at his pad. 

"First, as you know the holidays are coming up and I'm sure you all have your own uh, traditions or practices you want to observe. I'm planning on suspending normal activities for three weeks, a week and a half before Christmas and through New Year's. Those of you who want to stay on base, just let me know, and of course if you need more time off just send me a message. If anyone has any interest in still practicing over the holidays, that can be arranged."

_ Practicing, over the holidays?  _ Brigitte wonders who of their group other than Hanzo might want that. 

Winston taps his pad. "Second, I've got the official word from the RDF. They've declared that the omnic threat has been unquestionably eliminated and the army has withdrawn completely from Krasnoyarsk. Lieutenant Zarya tells me that they've been given holiday leave."

There's a pleased murmur from around the room, and Brigitte pumps a fist in victory. It's a great outcome, the one that they all had hoped for - peace at last for the Russian people. She feels a burst of warmth, imagining all the soldiers reuniting with their families.

Another tap of the pad. By the way Winston looks around to them Brigitte can tell that they're about to get to the main topic of today's meeting. He waits until the murmurs die out, as if loathe to break the happy mood too soon. He even buys some time fiddling with the projector remote, clicking the display on before clearing his throat. 

“That’s all for general announcements. Now, on to the issue at hand today.”

With another click a picture appears on the screen, heading a news clipping that's completely in Russian. The unsmiling face of a woman in a sharp black suit stares down at them, cold and yet somehow regal in her beauty. Her dark hair is tied back into a low ponytail. Brigitte has no idea who she is.

"This is Katya Volskaya. She is the CEO of Volskaya Industries, and the creator of the Russian mechs called  _ svyatogors. _ "

Looking around the room, Brigitte sees recognition on only two faces: Reinhardt's, and her father's. She herself only barely recognizes the name; it had appeared a few times in her readings when Brigitte had been preparing for Krasnoyarsk. 

“To the Russians she’s a great hero. The  _ svyatogors _ that her company produced were integral in Russia's victory in the first Omnic Crisis. And just under two months ago, Talon tried to assassinate her."

The news is like a shockwave rippling through the room. Brigitte turns to see Lúcio's eyes widen, mirroring her own expression. Angela raises a hand to her mouth, McCree swears, and Hanzo and Genji become, if possible, even stiller. Only Reinhardt, still as a statue next to her takes the news in stride, not even flinching at the proclamation. 

An assassination attempt? 

The news settles uncomfortably, alarms pinging in her brain. There had been another assassination of an important figure not all that long ago, and now this? She hadn't expected this at all. And the Russians had kept completely silent on the subject, even when they’d been right there!

_ Armed guards following them everywhere they go. An unspoken tension that seems to fill the camp. _

Or maybe, she just hadn't recognized the signs.

"They tried to assassinate her?" Lena is the first to recover, leaning forward in her seat. "But why?"

Winston opens his mouth, but Torbjörn beats him to it. 

“She’s the most powerful woman in Russia. Her company and products are worth millions. An’ he just said that she’s a great hero to her people. Is it any wonder that Talon would want her dead?” He slams his prosthetic hand on the table, a hard  _ clunk _ that reverberates through Brigitte’s elbows. “I don’t like it. This is too close.” 

Her father’s eye narrows, staring down at the dark wood. “They targeted her before Russia ever considered callin’ for help. They targeted someone whose closely linked to anti–omnic tech. They killed the most well–known omnic rights activist. Make no mistake about it, what they’re planning has got  _ everythin’ _ to do with omnics, and they’re tryin’ to pick off our people before we can get a force together that can oppose ‘em.”

He’s talking about the agents who haven’t returned the call yet, of course. The missing, presumed dead people that Brigitte knows that Winston hasn’t been able to reach. She doesn’t like what he’s saying. It sounds too much like he’s insinuating the start of another Omnic War.

Around the room, discontented sounds. Hanzo hisses something to Genji, while McCree rubs a hand across his chin. Brigitte finds herself rubbing her fingernail worryingly over a scratch on the table, and tries to still her motion.

“Um, yes.” Winston drums his blunt fingers on the tabletop. “That is what it seems like. From what I’ve been able to gather, the assassination attempt involved the Reaper, the Widowmaker –” at this, Lena lets out a soft huff of air – “–and someone we’ve never seen before. Some kind of...technology manipulator. Whoever it was was able to get the equipment inside Volskaya Industries to work for them, despite presumably having none of the access codes or keys. We can’t discount the possibility that it was an inside job” 

Instead of messing with the table, Brigitte now finds herself chewing on her thumb.  _ Couldn’t they catch a break? _ Just when it seemed like they had really accomplished something, here was something new to worry about. 

“It could have been a sleeper agent. Talon have proved themselves capable of playing a long game.” Genji’s voice is low, sharp, more synth than organic. Such a far cry from his normally cavalier attitude that Brigitte guesses he's had close, personal experience with this. 

“What can we do?” Angela says beseechingly. “We have all these suspicions, but what can we make of them? What action can we take?”

“Yeah, can we just go hunt down Talon and like, crush them?” Brigitte’s punches one fist into her cupped hand, her suggestion only half–joking. She would  _ love _ to go take down the organization that’s plagued Overwatch. That’s plagued the  _ world _ . But of course, such an attack would invite the kind of trouble she isn’t sure they’re ready to handle.

Next to her, Reinhardt laughs. “Don’t I wish it!”

Winston rubs his eyes. "That's just it. We  _ can't  _ do anything. Not until we have concrete intelligence that they're plotting something. And for that, we need, well...informants."

_ Isn't an assassination attempt concrete enough? _

Brigitte clenches her fingers until her nails dig almost painfully into the meat of her palm. It’s so frustrating, this powerlessness. She had heard it over and over from her father over the years, how being in Overwatch at times was more of an exercise in vexation than real, global change. Had he been talking about this? This constant waiting game?

"Perhaps we should pay a visit to some of our old acquaintances.” Genji makes a fluid motion with his hand, as if walking an invisible coin along his knuckles. “They have been known to be helpful before.”

Winston looks discomfited. He shifts in his chair, bunching his shoulders up in a protracted shrug. “I’m...not sure that’s the best idea.”

“I would be happy to look into him for you.”

_ Him? _

Angela gives Genji a stern look. “It would be far too dangerous for you to attempt it yourself.” They’re clearly talking about the same person.. 

“Oh, I might be able to get Hanzo to help me.” Genji is back to teasing, the tension stripped from his voice. He nudges Hanzo’s shoulder with his elbow, which earns him a sharp look. 

“No, no, I think we should wait until after the holidays are over to make any moves.” Winston interrupts before the discussion can go any further. “I won’t say that something like that is..uh..out of the realm of possibility, though.”

“Excellent.” Genji seems pleased by not being turned down outright. Brigitte feels like the discussion has completely gone over her head, and turns to Reinhardt for clarification. His mouth moves, shaping the word:  _ after. _

Winston clicks the remote, killing the projection. "So, that's all I know so far. Talon failed their assassination attempt, and as far as I've been able to see they haven't made another since. Sorry I couldn't end the meeting on a more positive note but…" he trails off, looking around as though expecting someone to speak up. No one does. 

"Well, if no one has any questions, meeting adjourned."

As Brigitte walks back through the hall leading towards their mess hall she can see Mei making her way towards them. Mei, being part of Overwatch's research sector has been tackling a problem every bit as insidious as Talon, and she’s doing it almost alone. Though she’d been invited, Mei had declined to be part of their sims and meetings, instead focusing most of her free time on collecting atmospheric readings around the Watchpoint, parsing through her own data or else staying shut up with Winston in his lab.

It is kinda cute, how those two get on. Mei’s exuberance complements Winston’s more stoic nature, an exchange that seems to benefit them both. 

Brigitte waves as Mei passes them by, her arms full of her laptop and external hard drive, Snowball bobbing along behind. She must be heading to meet him now.  _ Good. _ Winston might need some cheering up after that meeting, Brigitte knows she does.

The bulk of them are headed to the kitchen. It's Friday, which means she gets to help Reinhardt try a new recipe out. The rest of the team split into groups, some doing a clean sweep of the mess hall while Torbjörn retreats to do a security system check, Angela checking the stock of the medbay and Hanzo and Genji, the most mobile of them check the Watchpoint’s perimeter, checking the camera’s blind spots. It’s a routine born out of the necessity of the Watchpoint’s upkeep, but as Lúcio puts on some music Brigitte dares to think that even this can be fun. 

Reinhardt begins to pull ingredients out of the fridge, stacking them in a growing mound on the counter as she watches.  Brigitte always tries to guess what they’ll be making before Reinhardt tells her. He keeps it a secret, but sometimes the ingredients give it away. Tonight when she sees the trifecta of carrots, celery and onion she knows enough to guess that it’s going to be some kind of soup - and when she pulls the largest pot out of the cupboard, he nods approvingly. 

She takes the vegetables from him and slaps a cutting board down next to the oven so they can talk while they work. “So, gonna let me in on what that was about?” 

Brigitte wastes no time in pumping him for information, sharpening a paring knife and trying to sound casual; as though she’s absolutely  _ not _ dying to hear it.

Reinhardt tosses a whole stick of butter into the pot and then cranks on the heat. “If you like.”

“Yes, I like.” She slides an onion towards herself, peeling the papery outer layers off into the trash. Slicing off the top and bottom, she halves the onion and begins to dice. "So, who is this mysterious 'him' that Genji was talking about? An informant?" 

First lengthwise, then width-wise, Brigitte chops the onion with increasing rapidity, only nicking a fingernail once. She's getting better at this. 

"He was an informant, of sorts." Reinhardt see-saws his hand at her, and the tone of his voice makes it clear that whoever it was was an  _ unwilling _ informant. "One we went through a lot of trouble to procure."

Brigitte's eyes sting. Oh crap. She always forgets to run the oven fan, and now the onion has gotten to her. Stabbing pain, like a toothpick right on her eyeballs. There's no help for it; tears well up, but that just makes everything hurt more. "Yeah? How'd that come about?" She tries to surreptitiously rub her eyes against the sleeve of her shirt. 

Reinhardt catches her doing it and holds out a tea towel for her to wipe her streaming eyes on. He toggles on the oven fan, then sets to stirring the onions that she tips into the pot.

“There was an intelligence mission, back before things started to get bad. I was not assigned to it, I was away on other business – but the aim of the strike team that day was to capture a suspected member of Talon." Reinhardt pauses, shaking some pepper into the pot before continuing. "They had reason to believe this person would be, ah -  _ amenable _ to discussion."

Brigitte raises an eyebrow at him. "That sounds an awful lot like something that might be up Blackwatch's alley." She begins to work on the celery.

_ Isn't that what Blackwatch was for? Putting the thumbscrews to people who didn't want to talk?  _

"What? No! No, there was no torture. Nothing under the table." Reinhardt shakes his head at her, silvered hair flying with the force of his denial. "We merely decided to overlook some of his more egregious lawbreaking. Him, being an omnic named Maximilien.” 

_ An omnic? Part of Talon?  _ Brigitte frowns. She's never even considered that omnics might work with the very people concerned with inciting hate against them. "An omnic, huh? Kinda surprising. Talon seems pretty...uh... _ anti _ -omnic rights. Doesn't seem like they'd find an omnic sympathetic to their cause."

Reinhardt lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Perhaps they worked out a deal, I do not know. I believe Talon operates much like Overwatch once did; with many moving pieces. It may be that not all those in Talon employ support their ideals, and seek other connections." 

Brigitte tips the celery into the pot. "Yeah, I guess so. What was special about Maximilien, then?" The carrots are last, and she peels them with alacrity.

“He was a known conspirator with Doomfist, who we were struggling to apprehend." Reinhardt stands, one hand tucked thoughtfully under his chin as he remembers. "I understand that in exchange for some information on his whereabouts, Overwatch agreed to  _ not _ to turn Maximilien in to the authorities. He’s a crafty one, Maximilien. He has made his fortune in money laundering.”

Brigitte adds the carrots to the pot, then tucks the cutting board into the sink. “So, Genji wants to see if they can put the squeeze on him again?” It's an intriguing thought: a reconnaissance mission. Though whether she'd be much use in such a scenario is another question entirely.

Reinhardt nods. “Yes. Though, the mission was very dangerous last time, Maximilien is well protected. I do not think it would be possible to get him alone now, even with Genji's connections.”

“Do you think all of us together could pull it off?" 

“It is...possible.” Reinhardt looks troubled. “I do not think he would be expecting it this time. But we have only the hunch. No way to prove his involvement, or evidence that he's supporting them. I think it best that we wait.” 

Behind them Brigitte can hear the indistinct rumble of conversation at the tables in the mess hall. The other agents are content to wait while dinner is being made, now that they've cleaned the tables. 

She wonders how many of them are stewing, as she is, in their own powerlessness.

The sharp sound of sizzling tears her out of her melancholy thoughts. Reinhardt has a slab of green-speckled, very fragrant meat cooking in the skillet now, and her mouth waters at the smell. _So_ _hungry_. She had forgotten to grab a snack between the end of sims and the meeting. 

Swallowing back a mouthful of saliva, she watches as he chunks up the meat with a wooden spoon. 

“You know, if Talon can convince an omnic to help them, they probably have contacts in all sorts of places. Powerful connections. There's no way they'd be able to get near someone like Katya Volskaya without that,” she muses, giving voice to the thought that troubles her most.  _ The Russians have always been very private. What sort of power is that far-reaching? _

"It is true. Talon has a number of contacts, both willing and unwilling. It is possible- no, it is  _ likely _ that they are blackmailing many of them."

_ Blackmail. _ Yeah, she could see that. 

Mulling over those words, Brigitte ends her inquiry. 

They cook in tandem for the next hour, (or rather, Reinhardt puts the rest of it together, while Brigitte cleans up their mess) and the kitchen steadily warms as steam boils off the soup. When they turn on the oven to brown some french loaves Brigitte has to remove her sweatshirt, it's positively toasty in there.

"You've got something on your arm." 

Brigitte turns to see Reinhardt pointing at her. She lowers both her sponge and the vegetable knife she was washing, eyes following the path of his finger.

"See it? Just there." He reaches out to touch her shoulder, poking her guild tattoo.

It's a stupid joke, one he's pulled a hundred times before. He likes to spring it on her when she's least expecting it, though she hasn't fallen for it in over a year. 

"Oh,  _ ha ha _ . Very funny." She swats his finger away with a wet hand to his uproarious laughter. She can't believe she actually fell for that! 

In retaliation she unslings the now–damp tea towel from her shoulder and twists it tightly. When his back is turned, she snaps it at him, hitting squarely above his left buttock. The sharp grunt of surprise that leaves him is undignified, almost a snort. She has to bite back her laughter, turning back around and pretending to wash again, as if it definitely  _ wasn't _ her fault. 

"Did you just -  _ whip _ me?" Reinhardt bellows in mock-outrage. 

Brigitte shoots him a wide-eyed, innocent look over her shoulder.  _ Who, me?  _ Her poker face is spoiled somewhat by the twitch at the corner of her lips, and she turns back before it can split into an outright smile. It's in her nature to escalate things, she can't help it.  _ But he started it! _

Reinhardt grabs her from behind in a bear hug, burly arms trapping her arms against her side and lifting her so that her feet leave the floor.

Oh, right. It's in his nature to escalate too.

She drops the knife in the sink with a clatter before she can accidentally stab something. They  _ really _ shouldn't be roughhousing like this in the kitchen, surrounded by hot burners and pointy objects,  but it's never stopped them before.

" _ Ha-ha _ ! What are you going to do now?"

His face is tucked against her back, his beard scraping the juncture of her neck and shoulder. The flesh there prickles, at once itchy and ticklish. She has to suppress a shiver.

_ Damn.  _

He's got her pinned well; his chest is solid as a wall against her back. The strange tingling in her neck distracts her, makes her hesitate just a second too long before enacting her escape. Bowing her arms, she frees up enough space to slip free and then jabs his gut with her elbow - a light hit, just sharp enough to force him away. He hams it up anyway, acting like she's outright punched him.

"Guess you can't handle me after all." The words come out a touch too breathlessly, so she flips her ponytail nonchalantly and flicks an invisible speck of dust from her shoulder; feigning cockiness. “Better luck next time.”

"Cheap shot!" Reinhardt grumbles good-naturedly, rubbing his stomach and turning back to the stove to turn the burner off.

"All's fair in war!" 

" _ Nein _ . All's fair in  _ love _ and war," Reinhardt corrects her, and she rolls her eyes.

"Whatever. You're just sore that you can't pin me."

The team finishing the mess hall cleanup don't even bat an eye at their bickering, a testament to how routine it's become. Sometimes they even join in, turning the mess hall into a cacophony of amiable taunts and jokes.

"Man, if you two cooked as fast as you slung those insults, we'd be eating by now!" Lúcio chides them, and Brigitte pokes her tongue out at him, blowing a noisy raspberry.

“Dinner is almost ready!” 

At Reinhardt's word Brigitte sets the cleaning aside and springs into action. Everyone pitches in: setting the table, sending out messages to those not present, and helping distribute dishes.

The rest of the team trickles in, half of them chilled and wind-swept from their duties outside and looking gratefully at the steaming pot on the stove. They form an assembly line; deep bowls a filled, slices of thick bread passed around, plates filled with dark greenery. Brigitte warms her hands in the steam coming off her soup. The chill of the stone walls is no match for the warmth filling the table right now.

"Woah, what  _ is _ this?" Lena exclaims, her mouth full.

"Tortellini soup, with spicy sausage." Brigitte answers, blowing on her own spoonful. 

Angela scoops a spoonful up, looking approvingly at the hearty portions of spinach and tomato that swim in her bowl. "It smells delicious."

"Id ig!" Lena replies from around her bread.

After her first bite, Brigitte can't help but agree. Though she's not as big a fan of spicy food as Reinhardt is, the heat from the sausage is the perfect balance of flavorful and warming. She might have to take this recipe back to  _ mamma _ .

With dinner finished they round the night with a rousing tournament of  _ Mekkan _ , a popular fighting game.

Papa merely tuts and rolls his eyes as he watches them begin, retiring to his room for the night before the fighting really begins in earnest. He's not that big a fan of video games. 

He's the only one that leaves. Even Angela decides to try her hand at the game, of which there really only seems to be two schools of playstyle: either carefully-crafted combinations of attacks and quick defense, in the case of Winston and Genji, or random button-mashing, in the case of everyone else.

Unsurprising, Reinhardt is out first.

"They do not make these in my size!" he complains, shaking the controller. His thumbs are so large that he always ends up hitting multiple buttons in his enthusiasm to attack, cancelling any effective action.

"That's no excuse, look at Winston!" Lena points to him as he hands his controller off to Genji, who is next to play. The black plastic virtually disappears in Winston's dark palms, but he handles the buttons with amazing delicacy and alacrity.

"What? No, no, it  _ is _ hard to play when you have hands this big," Winston protests, to Reinhardt's approval. "I've just, uh...had a lot of practice over the years."

"Ah, this brings back some memories," Genji murmurs wistfully as he turns the controller over in his palms. "Many an hour of my misspent youth were in the video arcades around Hanamura."

Next to him Hanzo shifts, eyeing the controller. It'll be his turn to play next; maybe he's hoping to pick up a few tricks from his brother.

Lena and Genji go head to head in the next match

 Watching their fingers fly over the controls is almost dizzying, each of their movements faster than Brigitte's eyes can follow. Despite the speed of their motions, Genji wins handily. Lena gives him a high-five and relegates herself to one side of the sofa to watch the rest of the tournament.

Next up is Hanzo and McCree, a match Brigitte thinks she can guess the outcome of before either man even touches their controllers. 

Hanzo has been watching each match with laser focus, eyes flicking between the character's movements and the movement of each player's fingers. McCree has been sinking into the leather sofa, hat tipped low over his eyes. He might have actually been sleeping through the matches.

They both transform once the controllers are in their hands. Hanzo, more animated than Brigitte has ever seen; McCree, alert and grinning, eyes sparking.  Each man leans forward, intent on the game. Hungry for victory. 

Hanzo's watchfulness proves to be his edge - after a protracted battle he takes down McCree's character, a burly man with a bolo tie. 

"Aw, man! I want a do-over. I don't know any of these controls!" McCree complains, but his tone is exaggerated, joking. 

"The battle would have been over much sooner had you not mistaken the jump button for the punch button." Hanzo's voice is dry as he relinquishes his controller to Brigitte, but it's tinged with humor.

"Was that a joke, brother?" Genji reaches over to place the back of his hand on Hanzo's forehead, only to have it swatted away. "I think you must be getting sick."

"Why, he only gotta sense o'humor when he's delirious?" McCree teases, and Hanzo shrinks away from them both. He stalks away from Genji, moving to one of the recliners on the periphery and shooting the two agents a look. 

"Children." A soft mutter that Brigitte can barely hear.

She watches the archer for a moment as he perches in the chair, cross-legged and fastidious even in relaxation. It’s a little surprising that he stayed for the tournament; it seems he really is settling in here. It’s almost enough that she wonders if he’s going to reconsider his stance on becoming an official member of Overwatch. 

Wondering must wait, though. It’s her and Lúcio going head-to-head now, and she has no confidence that she’s going to win. She’s played games before, but never  _ Mekkan. _

Brigitte lets the game select a random hero for her, and Lúcio does the same. 

“You’re going down, Lu,” she mock-threatens as the screen loads, bumping his shoulder with hers. They’re both sprawled on the floor, leaving the sofa for the older members of the team. 

"That's what you think!"

As it turns out, Lúcio wins - but it's close. Neither of them are particularly good at it, playing more cautiously than either of the other competitors had. Their match takes the longest; nearly 5 minutes, and concluded with one lucky hit when Brigitte's thumb slips off the guard button. At the end of it, she gives him a fist bump and hands off the controller. She's warm and full, and pretty okay with just watching the rest of the games unfold. Reinhardt gives her a conciliatory pat on the shoulder as she leans back against the sofa. 

The tournament closes. Angela defeats Mei to Brigitte’s surprise. She plays with careful precision, her movements slow and simple, but deliberate. Despite her victory, after she hands off the controller to Lena she nods to the group and retires to bed, leaving only two teams left to fight for the final round.

Then it's Winston up against Lena. Despite the speed of Lena’s button-mashing, he defeats her soundly and offers her an apologetic pat on the back. Lena waves him off. "Ah, rubbish. I knew I couldn’t win against you, big guy!"

Brigitte thinks she could’ve predicted the final outcome of the tournament, which is that Winston ends up duelling Genji for the crown. He lasts far longer than any of Winston’s previous combatants, but still ends up losing two minutes later. Laying the controller aside, he gets to his feet, clasps his hands palms-together and bows to Winston.

“I concede to superior skill,” he says, amused. 

They haven’t wagered anything but bragging rights for the victor, so the remaining members barrage Winston with fist bumps and high fives. Genji and he shake hands, Genji remarking that they’ll have to play again sometime, before both he and Hanzo retreat to their rooms for the night. 

Lena, as peppy as ever suggests a movie, and as it plays into the night Brigitte relocates herself to the sofa once Angela, Winston and Mei retire for the night. She finds her mind drifting, vague half-thoughts that turn into half-dreams as she begins to doze through the midpoint of  _ Die Another Day Redux _ . Only when Reinhardt shakes her awake at the end of the film does she realize she’s fallen asleep at all. 

“Oh, sorry.” She rights herself, straightening her sweatshirt and rubbing at her eyes. Somehow it’s gotten really warm in the room; no wonder she fell asleep. 

When she rolls into bed half an hour later she wonders briefly if she’ll have another weird dream. Playing with the thought, she casts it aside with the realization that, one way or another she can’t control her dreams, so there’s no point thinking about it. 

She pulls the covers up to her chin and closes her eyes.

 

***

 

Brigitte keeps her shield up, circling left to provide cover for Torbjörn while he sets up a turret. 

They’re in the middle of a sim, three days after her dream. Winston has really dialed the difficulty up lately; he and her father had worked out a new method of tracking both the hits that they receive during a match and the hits they land. There are now accuracy leaderboards and real–time feedback from Athena, letting them know what their current health status would be. It’s really something, pretty useful, especially–

_ Thock!  _

An energy projectile smacks her left rerebrace, interrupting her thoughts. 

“Brigitte, noncritical injury, left arm.” Athena’s voice rings in her ear and is presumably relayed to Angela as well because she turns her beam onto Brigitte as a reflex. She’s not really using her caduceus tech, but the simulation of it still registers in the system.

Brigitte adjusts her shield, cursing mentally at her own inattention. That’s the third time this match that she’s been hit with her defenses up; a poor display. 

Reinhardt grunts and heaves a firestrike off to their right. Her eyes instinctively flick to him at the sound, even though she’s seen the sight so many times before. Him, in his winter gear with an auxiliary shield strapped to his arm, still throwing his hammer around like it weighs nothing. Normal, everyday Reinhardt.

Brigitte turns her eyes back towards an approaching not and flicks out her mace.

"These new bots are an improvement!" Reinhardt exclaims to Winston and Torbjörn after sims, giving each of them a hearty pat on the back.

"I agree. They are much closer to what we faced in Russia," Genji adds approvingly. McCree points to the leaderboards, clicking his tongue approvingly at his kill count while Hanzo rolls his eyes.

During the post–sim discussion Winston usually goes over areas of the session that went well, or what could be improved on. Today she's not really listening. Her mind wanders, eyes fixed on one point of the unremarkable white wall.

"Brigitte, you took a couple more hits than normal today but you also got more critical hits on the targets. Keep up the accuracy, guard a little more. Reinhardt –"

She hears her name just in time to nod in response to Winston's words. Obviously he noticed her lapses, but thankfully he doesn't linger on them. Still, it’s a little embarrassing. Everyone has an off day, but making the same mistake twice isn’t something she does normally. 

_ Can’t protect the team if you’re not paying attention to them. _

The thought is sobering. Maybe that’s just what she needs though; discomfort is a fine teacher. She meditates on the thought through dinner, participating in the conversation much less than normal. The liveliness of the team around her only reminds her of how much she cares for each and every one of them. How she  _ should _ be giving her best every day for them.

Of course Reinhardt notices her silence. He corners her after dinner, following her down the hall and tapping on her shoulder before she can disappear into her room. 

“ _ Shildlein?  _ May I come in?” 

She nods and holds the door open for him, ignoring the tiniest quiver of unease.

Ordinarily she might just flop down on her bed and he would join her, both of them laying back and gazing up at the dark stone ceiling as if it contained a glittering array of stars. Tonight she merely perches on the edge of the mattress, one toe playing with the border of her area rug. He takes a seat next to her, the familiar lurch of the bed echoing a similar leap in her stomach. 

"What's up?" 

"I was about to ask you the same. You are awfully quiet tonight." Reinhardt looks down at her, giving her an opening to speak. He hasn’t outright come out and asked  _ is something wrong _ , and phrasing the question as a statement gives her an out to ignore it if she doesn’t really want to talk. The barely-concealed look of curious concern on his face eases some of the lingering tension in her, and she returns his look with a smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Really." Her eyes trace the wide stripe of the scar over his eye, the strong curve of his jaw. He has a crumb of bread stuck in his beard. "I was just thinking about some things after sims. Didn’t think I did as well today as I could have." 

The concerned look breaks, morphing instead into one of understanding. "Ah. Well, we all make mistakes sometimes. You must simply resolve to do better!”

"Yeah, I know. I was just thinking, on a mission I can't have an off-day, or else someone's going to get hurt. Just kinda put a damper on my mood is all." Shrugging in an offhand manner, she reaches out and plucks the crumb out of his beard. She doesn’t want him to think she’s going to dwell on the thought.

Reinhardt reaches out, sweeps one hand around her shoulders and crushes her against his side. “You did better than any recruit I’ve ever seen on your first mission, and have performed admirably in all the simulations. I do not think you have anything to worry about. And besides, what is your team there for but to help? We will not let you fail!”

Warmth blooms like a flower in her chest, spreading delicate petals of sensation through her entire body. She knows everything he’s said is true, logically. But knowing it and hearing it come from someone else are very different. Part of her shies away from the compliment, instinctively embarrassed by the glowing praise; an equal part basks in the attention, soaking it up as though she’s been parched for affection.

“Thanks, Reinhardt. I know it was a fluke. I won’t let it bother me for long.” She returns the embrace, squeezing tightly and pressing her cheek along the swell of his chest. 

They remain like that for a long moment, until his grip begins to loosen. 

"Well, if you want to talk more you know where to find me." Reinhardt lets her go and heaves to his feet with a grunt. "And if you are not better by morning, we will find something to do to cheer you up,  _ ja? _ "

Brigitte follows him to his feet, offering a casual, two-fingered salute. " _ Alles klar." _

She heads to bed two hours later. Despite the chill of the room she feels warm; Reinhardt’s praise still smoldering like banked coals.

 

***

 

Brigitte lowers the barbell until it barely taps her chest, then pushes it up with a sharp exhale. Her arms wobble as the bar reaches its peak. Reinhardt hovers overhead, his hands ready to catch should she falter. She stares through him to the ceiling, focused on keeping her shoulders retracted and her back arched.

"Two more." He is counting for her. She's going for a PR today, 3 reps of what was her max weight two weeks ago. 

She lowers the bar again, the metal lightly kissing her chest before she grinds it back up. The barbell rises much slower this time, her arms quivering with the effort. With a grunt, she forces the bar all the way up.

"Good. One more."

Down the bar goes again, and Brigitte's arms feel vaguely like they might not belong to her anymore. She can feel the tension screwing the muscles taut, the rusty creak of tendons as she forces the stop just above her chest. It's so damn  _ heavy _ . 

The bar presses down, and she pushes back. She can feel every ridge and scratch of the textured metal pressing into the calloused meat of her hands, dull pain blossoming like a florid bruise.

She doesn't mind. The pain anchors her, keeping her focused.

"Come on, you're almost there," Reinhardt urges her as the bar creeps up. His hands hover just next to hers, ready to catch.

Brigitte knows she's lost. She can feel her muscles hit their limit, an invisible wall that won't let her get those last six inches up. The bar descends again, the struggle now turned to keep it from crushing her chest. Reinhardt’s hands close down. The bar lightens considerably, then floats away as he takes it from her and re-racks it with a hard  _ clink. _

"Close! I think next week you will have it." 

As Brigitte sits up, she can tell she's going to feel it tomorrow. Her muscles feel rubbery, twitchy, very much how she thinks a newborn foal must feel. She raises one hand to rub at her chest. 

"Ohhhh man, that's gonna be annoying tomorrow." 

"Do you need a massage?" Reinhardt begins to remove the bar clips, and she gets up to help him.

"Maybe. After we get  _ you  _ done." She slides the clip off, waggling it at him teasingly. "Not trying to get out of testing your max, are you?"

Reinhardt snorts. "Never. Add one more eleven,  _ bitte. _ "

She obligingly slips the plate onto the bar and returns the clip, taking her place at the head of the bench. Hopefully he doesn't need her help quite yet, she's not sure her arms can take much right at this moment.

Reinhardt sprawls across the bench, pulling himself under the bar into position. He’s so much bigger than her that he overflows the bench, his hips almost hanging off the end of it. When he unracks the bar the movement causes his tank top to ride up, exposing a slice of pale flesh.

Absentmindedly she finds herself watching the flex of muscle there as he begins his reps. The movement of the hem of his shirt is almost mesmerizing, rhythmic. Her eyes follow the dusting of silvery hairs that march down his stomach to disappear below his shorts. 

The bar clacks as he re-racks it. He's finished his warm-up set already, and he’s starting 25kg above her max. He makes it look so easy. Then again, he’s quite literally twice the size of her. For him it  _ is _ easy. 

“Geez, you could at least try and make that look difficult.” She rubs again at her sternum, exaggerating a scowl. He only flexes at her, grinning.

He asks for another 20 kg on each side, and she obliges. While he rests between sets she occupies herself with some dynamic stretches, hoping to mitigate some of the inevitable soreness. Being able to lift her shield and mace tomorrow would be good. As soon as he lays back down, she takes her position again, determined to watch this time.

He's getting close to his max. The speed of the bar has slowed, but he still pushes through each motion fluidly, only the faintest hint of a wobble on the last rep. When the bar comes down on the hooks he sits up with a groan.

"Elevens now." Reinhardt mops the sweat from his forehead with a cloth. "And then I will test my one-rep max."

These will be the two sets he needs her vigilance most. 

Instead of five reps he only does three for the next set, the quivering of his arms intensifying. He's going to be benching about three times her max when all is said and done. She can't decide whether to feel impressed or jealous. 

"Fives now."

The last ten kilos are a struggle. Her hands hover next to his, poised to assist the second it looks like he'll fail. Teeth bared in a grimace, Reinhardt inches the bar all the way back up and then drops the weight onto the rack with a crash and a gusty exhalation.

"Nice work!" She clasps his hand, helps him sit back up. "So...about that massage?"

True to his word, and despite his own soreness Reinhardt does give her a massage. He must be improving his technique because the touch feels better than normal. Almost tingly. 

_ Maybe impinged a nerve. _ She thinks sluggishly, brain turned to mush under the onslaught of sensation. 

She returns the favor.

Despite the massage by evening she can tell tomorrow will be rough. The soreness is setting in already, and she pops a few pills to head off the ache before flopping onto the couch and moaning aloud to the room at large. Lúcio, Lena and Reinhardt are ensconced there, the only ones feeling sociable tonight.

"I don't know why you guys do that to yourselves." Lúcio shakes his head at her, flipping through the channels, looking for something interesting to watch.

"Pain is weakness leaving the body!" Reinhardt crows, thumping his chest with a fist. "I  _ enjoy _ it!"

"It does feel kinda good, in a weird way." Brigitte agrees.

"Yeah, certified nuts, the both of you." Lúcio rolls his eyes at them before pausing in his flipping. On screen a familiar figure clad in red and white moves through snow, climbing into an ornate sled. "Is it too early for a Christmas movie?"

"It's never too early!" Lena dispels his worry with an enthusiastic shake of her head.

Brigitte can't help but agree; Christmas is one of her favorite times of year. In less than two weeks she and Reinhardt will be heading back to her parents house.

"Man, I wish I could go home for Christmas," Lúcio moans. 

"Wait - why can't you?" Brigitte is confused. She had thought Lúcio was making arrangements.

"Well - it's not like I  _ can't _ go home, but  _ mae _  thinks that Vishkar are still after me. Says it's too dangerous for me to visit now. I'd fly her and all my brothers and sisters out here, but she thinks they'll take the opportunity to seize the house or bug it or something if they leave." He tilts his head back onto the sofa, sounding glum. "Just sucks."

"Aw, Lúcio–I didn't know!" Lena puts a hand on his knee, Christmas movie completely forgotten. "Emily and I always do hols with Winston here, you're welcome to join us!"

"Yeah! And I'm sure my  _ mamma _ wouldn't mind an extra at the table this year!" Brigitte offers. If she had known, she would have asked him way before now.

"Aw, you guys are too kind, really. It's not that big of a deal. It's just a couple days!" Lúcio backpedals at the intensity of their gazes, as though surprised by the vehemency of the offers. 

"And we'll be back shortly after Christmas. Papa and Mama sometimes travel for New Year's. So we could hang out and have a drink then!" Brigitte says, already planning ahead. She's supposed to head back the 28th, maybe she could pack leftovers to bring to him.

Lúcio sits up suddenly, almost vibrating with excitement. “Yo, I have the  _ best _ idea!” 

“What?” Lena and Brigitte answer simultaneously, with Reinhardt lagging a second behind.

“We should have a  _ New Years Party! _ ” 

This proclamation is met with silence. 

_ New Years Party? _

It’s not a bad idea. Brigitte has been to a few before, even travelling to Berlin one year to celebrate with some friends at Brandenburger Gate. There had been music, lights, hundreds of people milling about ready to ring in the new year. 

Despite the lack of reaction, Lúcio is still talking. “I could set up in the mess hall and DJ for the evening - I have a few experimental tracks I wanted to run by you anyway, Brig - and we can buy champagne or those little wine spritzer things and some lights -”

“That sounds like a great idea! It’s been ages since we had a good bash around here.” Lena is completely on board now, hopping on Lúcio’s planning train with alacrity. “Emily goes to visit her cousins over New Year’s usually, so I could stay here and help make drinks or bake! I have a  _ great  _ recipe for sangria.”

The excitement is catching. Brigitte can feel her own enthusiasm rising the longer they talk, her head filled with thoughts of an almost dance-club like scene of throbbing bass, flickering lights and flowing drinks. 

“Wait - would we be dressing up for this?” she asks, remembering one party her parents had dragged her along to. It had been at the house of a stuffy older woman, a friend of her grandmother’s and she had been forced into the sort of lacy horror her mother thought of as an elegant party dress, and stiff, shined shoes. 

“Oh yeah wouldn’t that be ace? A fancy party!” Lena nods excitedly, as though Brigitte had offered a suggestion, not a question. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen everyone smarten up!”

“Wait, no, I meant-”

“Ah, I have the perfect shoes for such an occasion!” Reinhardt steamrolls over her, smashing his way into the conversation like a bullet train. “I have not worn those since the United Nations awards presentation!”

“Oh, does that mean I can wear one of those vest things that makes me look like a waiter?” Lúcio adds excitedly.

_ Should have kept my mouth shut _ .

By the end of the night the party planning has taken on a life of its own, and word has spread to the rest of the agents, many of whom trickle in to join them in the living room. To Brigitte’s chagrin, the idea of an ‘elegant party’ seems to appeal to all of them, and all the credit goes to her for the suggestion.

“I suppose this means I will have to rent a tuxedo. I do not have all-black augmentations.” Genji gestures to himself with his trademark humor. 

“Indeed, I will have to as well,” Reinhardt says. “I only hope I can find a store that caters to those of my height!”

“Maybe they’ll give us a discount if we rent as a group.” McCree points to all the men in the room, a total of five of them including Hanzo. Winston and Torbjörn are not in attendance, and Brigitte wonders briefly how exactly those two, with such extremes in their builds, would find a tuxedo that fits anyway. She’s never seen her father in anything fancier than a pair of khakis and some leather work boots.

Mei taps her shoulder. “Want to go dress shopping together?” 

Brigitte smiles weakly, trying to feign enthusiasm she doesn’t feel. Dress shopping is a legal form of torture. “Uh, sure! When were you thinking?”

She, Lena, and Mei hammer out a time to go into town together. Angela declines to go, citing the fact that she already has everything she needs; Brigitte envies her preparedness. The only bright light on the dark horizon is the fact that she’ll be going with friends; hopefully their presence will help make it a bit less painful. 

“Man, I should’ve kept my mouth shut,” she grumbles to Reinhardt as they walk down the hall together towards their rooms. “I was only asking if we had to dress up, not advocating it!”

Reinhardt chuckles. “It will be fun! You’ll see.”

“Yeah, fun for you. You don’t have to wear a dress!”

Brigitte pushes her door open, intent on wallowing in her misery a little longer before bed. Reinhardt snags her wrist before she can get inside, pulling her back towards him. “Is it really so bad?” 

_ Oh, he shouldn’t have asked that question. _

“It’s just...so  _ boring _ . You have to go to the store and find one in a color you like, and then it has to be the right size, and you have to try it on, because even if it looks good on the hanger it could still look terrible on you, and more often than not it  _ does _ look terrible, so you have to keep trying and trying and trying, and most of the time you have to go to more than one  _ store _ -” 

Reinhardt stifles her rant by enfolding her in a hug so tight that her voice is muffled into his chest. “I yield, I yield! That does sound terrible.” 

By his tone she can tell he’s more amused than anything. Still the hug seems to help; her irritation fades by degrees until it’s nothing more than a husk. The warmth of his embrace seems to act like a tranquilizer, soothing away all thoughts in a wave of raw physical comfort.

After a minute Brigitte surfaces. 

"Maybe I'll get lucky and it won't be so bad this time." She mumbles the words into the blue fabric of his sweatshirt. And indeed the prospect of a shopping trip seems, at least temporarily, not so bad.

"That's the spirit!"

 

***

 

When she wakes the next morning, Brigitte feels positively cheerful. She’s shed the gloom of the night before like water off oiled feathers; even her aching pecs and the looming specter of the shopping trip in two day's time can't dampen the pervasive lightness that buoys her.

She whistles through her shower and heads for mess hall. Already she can hear the low rumble of conversation in the kitchen and smell a heady, complex aroma that might be holiday spices or apple cinnamon.

Rounding the corner she finds the team tucking into layers of fluffy pancakes and tall glasses of milk, Reinhardt rocking to oldies while he flips pancakes on the sizzling griddle, still in his pajamas. He's even got a ridiculous pink apron on, something that Lena had bought him as a gag gift two weeks after they'd first returned to the Watchpoint. It stretches over his massive frame, short enough that the frilled bottom just barely hits his waist.

When he smiles at her and bids her a good morning, she feels warmth like effervescent bubbles fizzing and popping in her stomach.

_ Oh. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the 3 people still reading:
> 
> Bet you thought this was abandoned, didn't you? 
> 
> Wrong! 
> 
> Technically, it's not even on hiatus. However, the speed at which I'm able to turn the chapters out has been severely limited by the fact that school is currently kicking my butt. This is the first time in months I've had more than two days to do something, and the first time since school has started that I haven't had to be studying over the weekend. 
> 
> So, my apologies for the slow chapters! They'll still be coming, but expect months in between, at least until I go on break. Expect the next chapter around Thanksgiving. 
> 
> And, as always, thanks for reading!


End file.
